On the morning of Mrs. M'Mahon's funeral, the house as is usual in such
cases, was filled with relatives and neighbors, each and all anxious
to soothe and give comfort to the afflicted family. Protestants and
Presbyterians were there, who entered as deeply and affectionately into
the sorrow which was felt as if they were connected to them by blood.
Moving about with something like authority, was Dennis O'Grady,
the Roman Catholic Parish Clerk, who, with a semi-clerical bearing,
undertook to direct the religious devotions which are usual on such
occasions. In consequence of the dearth of schools and teachers that
then existed in our unfortunate country, it frequently happened, that
persons were, from necessity, engaged in aiding the performance of
religious duties, who were possessed of very little education, if not,
as was too often the case, absolutely and wholly illiterate. Dennis was
not absolutely illiterate, but, in good truth, he was by no means far
removed from that uncomfortable category. Finigan, the schoolmaster,
was also present; and as he claimed acquaintance with the classics,
and could understand and read with something like correctness the Latin
offices, which were frequently repeated on these occasions it would be
utterly impossible to describe the lofty scorn and haughty supercilious
contempt with which he contemplated poor Dennis, who kept muttering away
at the _Confiteor_ and _De Profundis_ with a barbarity of pronunciation
that rendered it impossible for human ears to understand a single word
he said. Finigan, swollen with an indignation which he could no longer
suppress, and stimulated by a glass or two of whiskey, took three or
four of the neighbors over to a corner, where, whilst his eyes rested on
Dennis with a most withering expression of scorn, he exclaimed--“Here,
hand me that manual, and get out o' my way, you illiterate nonentity and
most unsufferable appendage to religion.”
He then took the book, and going over to the coffin, read in a loud
and sonorous voice the _De Profundis_ and other prayers for the dead,
casting his eyes from time to time upon the unfortunate clerk with a
contemptuous bitterness and scorn that, for force of expression, could
not be surpassed. When he had concluded, he looked around him with a
sense of lofty triumph that was irresistible in its way. “There,” said
he, “is something like accent and quantity for you--there is something
that may, without derogation to religion, be called respectable
perusal--an' yet to say that a man like me, wid classical
accomplishments and propensities from my very cradle, should be set
aside for that illiterate vulgarian, merely because, like every other
janius, I sometimes indulge in the delectable enjoyment of a copious
libation, is too bad.”
This in fact was the gist of his resentment against O'Grady. He had been
in the habit for some time of acting as clerk to the priest, who bore
with his “copious libations,” as he called them, until common decency
rendered it impossible to allow him any longer the privilege of taking a
part as clerk in the ceremonies of religion.
When this was over, a rustic choir, whom the parish clerk had organized,
and in a great measure taught himself, approached the body and sang a
hymn over it, after which the preparations for its removal began to be
made.
Ever since the death of his wife, Thomas M'Mahon could not be prevailed
upon to taste a morsel of food. He went about from place to place,
marked by such evidences of utter prostration and despair that it was
painful to look upon him, especially when one considered the truth,
purity, and fervor of the affection that had subsisted between him and
the inestimable woman he had lost. The only two individuals capable of
exercising any influence upon him now were Bryan and his daughter Dora;
yet even they could not prevail upon him to take any sustenance. His
face was haggard and pale as death, his eyes red and bloodshot, and his
very body, which had always been erect and manly, was now stooped and
bent from the very intensity of his affliction.
He had been about the garden during the scene just described, and from
the garden he passed round through all the office-houses, into every one
of which he entered, looking at them in the stupid bereavement of grief,
as if he had only noticed them for the first time. On going into the
cow-house where the animals were at their food, he approached one of
them--that which had been his wife's favorite, and which would suffer
no hand to milk her but her own--“Oh, Bracky,” he said, “little you know
who's gone from you--even you miss her already, for you refused for the
last three days to let any one of them milk you, when she was not here
to do it. Ah, Bracky, the kind hand and the kind word that you liked so
well will never be wid you more--that low sweet song that you loved to
listen to, and that made you turn round while she was milkin' you, an'
lick her wid your tongue from pure affection--for what was there that
had life that didn't love her? That low, sweet song, Bracky, you will
never hear again. Well, Bracky, for her sake I'm come to tell you, this
sorrowful mornin', that while I have life an' the means of keepin' you,
from me an' them she loved you will never part.”
While he spoke the poor animal, feeling from the habit of instinct that
the hour of! milking had arrived, turned round and uttered once or twice
that affectionate lowing with which she usually called upon the departed
to come and relieve her of her fragrant burthen. This was more than
the heart-broken man could bear, he walked back, and entering the
wake-house, in a burst of vehement sorrow--“Oh, Bridget, my wife, my
wife--is it any wondher we should feel your loss, when your favorite,
Bracky, is callin' for you; but you won't come to her--that voice that
so often charmed her will never charm the poor affectionate creature
again.”
“Father dear,” said Bryan, “if ever you were called upon to be a man it
is now.”
“But, Byran, as God is to judge me,” replied his father, “the cow--her
own cow--is callin' for her in the cow-house widin--its truth--doesn't
everything miss her--even poor Bracky feels as if she was dasarted. Oh,
my God, an' what will we do--what will we do!”
This anecdote told by the sorrowing husband was indeed inexpressingly
affecting. Bryan, who had collected all his firmness with a hope of
being able to sustain his father, was so much overpowered by this
circumstance that, after two or three ineffectual attempts to soothe
him, he was himself fairly overcome, and yielded for the moment to
bitter tears, whilst the whole family broke out into one general
outburst, of sorrow, accompanied in many cases by the spectators, who
were not proof against the influence of so natural and touching an
incident.
Their neighbors and friends, in the meantime, were pouring in fast
from all directions. Jemmy Burke and his wife--the latter ridiculously
over-dressed--drove there upon their jaunting-car, which was considered
a great compliment, followed soon afterwards by Hycy and Harry Clinton
on horse-back. Gerald Cavanagh and his family also came, with the
exception of Kathleen and Hanna, who were, however, every moment
expected. The schoolmaster having finished the _De Profundis_, was,
as is usual, treated to glass of whiskey--a circumstance which just
advanced him to such a degree of fluency and easy assurance as was
necessary properly to develop the peculiarities of his character. Having
witnessed Bryan's failure at consolation, attended as it was by the
clamorous grief of the family, he deemed it his duty, especially as
he had just taken some part in the devotions, to undertake the task in
which Bryan had been so unsuccessful.
“Thomas M'Mahon,” said he, “I'm disposed to blush--do you hear me, I
say? I am disposed to blush, I repate, for your want of--he doesn't hear
me:--will you pay attention? I am really disposed to blush”--and as he
uttered the words he stirred M'Mahon by shaking his shoulders two or
three times, in order to gain his attention.
“Are you?” replied the other, replying in an absent manner to his words.
“God help you then, and assist you, for it's few can do it.”
“Can do what?”
“Och, I don't know; whatever you wor sayin'.”
“Patience, my good friend, Thomas M'Mahon. I would call you Tom
familiarly, but that you are in affliction, and it is well known that
every one in affliction is, or at least ought to be, treated with
respect and much sympathetical consolation. You are now in deep sorrow;
but don't you knows that death is the end of all things? and believe me
there are many objects in this world which a wise and experienced man
would lose wid much greater regret than he would a mere wife. Think, for
instance, how many men there are--dreary and subdued creatures--who
dare not call their souls, if they have any, or anything else they do
possess, their own; think, I repate, of those who would give nine-tenths
of all they are worth simply to be in your present condition! Wretches
who from the moment they passed under the yoke matrimonial, to which all
other yokes are jokes, have often heard of liberty but never enjoyed it
for one single hour--the Lord help them!”
“Amen!” exclaimed M'Mahon, unconsciously.
“Yes,” proceeded Finigan, “unfortunate devils whose obstinacy has been
streaked by a black mark, or which ought rather to be termed a black and
blue mark, for that is an abler and more significant illustration, Poor
quadrupeds who have lived their whole miserable lives as married men
under an iron dynasty; and who know that the thunderings of Jupiter
himself, if he were now in vogue, would be mere music compared to the
fury of a conjugal tongue when agitated by any one of the thousand
causes that set it a-going so easily. Now, Thomas, I am far from
insinuating that ever you stood in that most pitiable category, but I
know many who have--heigho!--and I know many who do, and some besides
who will; for what was before may be agin, and it will be nothing but
ascendancy armed with her iron rod on the one hand, against patience,
submission, and tribulation, wid their groans and penances on the other.
Courage then, my worthy friend; do not be overwhelmed wid grief, for
I can assure you that as matters in general go on the surface of this
terraqueous globe, the death of a wife ought to be set down as a proof
that heaven does not altogether overlook us. 'Tis true there are tears
shed upon such occasions, and for very secret reason's too, if the truth
were known. Joy has its tears as well as grief, I believe, and it is
often rather difficult, under a blessing so completely disguised as the
death of a wi--of one's matrimonial partner, to restrain them.
Come then, be a man. There is Mr. Hycy Burke, a tender-hearted young
gentleman, and if you go on this way you will have him weeping' for
sheer sympathy, not pretermitting Mr. Clinton, his companion, who
is equally inclined to be pathetic, if one can judge from apparent
symptoms.”
“I'm obliged to you, Masther,” replied M'Mahon, who had not heard, or
rather paid attention to, a single syllable he had uttered. “Of course
it's thruth you're savin'---it is--it is, _fureer gair_ it is; and she
that's gone from me is a proof of it. What wondher then that I should
shed tears, and feel as I do?”
The unconscious simplicity of this reply to such a singular argument for
consolation as the schoolmaster had advanced, caused many to smile,
some to laugh outright, and others to sympathize still more deeply
with M'Mahon's sorrow. Finigan's allusion to Hycy and his companion was
justified by the contrast which the appearance of each presented. Hycy,
who enjoyed his lecture on the tribulations of matrimonial life very
much, laughed as he advanced in it, whilst Clinton, who was really
absorbed in a contemplation of the profound and solemn spirit which
marked the character of the grief he witnessed, and who felt impressed
besides by the touching emblems of death and bereavement which
surrounded him, gradually gave way to the impressions that gained on
him, until he almost felt the tears in his eyes.
At this moment Kathleen and her sister Hanna entered the house, and a
general stir took place among those who were present, which was caused
by her strikingly noble figure and extraordinary beauty--a beauty which,
on the occasion in question, assumed a peculiarly dignified and majestic
character from the deep and earnest sympathy with the surrounding sorrow
that was impressed on it.
Hycy and his companion surveyed her for many minutes; and the former
began to think that after all, if Miss Clinton should fail him, Kathleen
would make an admirable and most lovely wife. Her father soon after she
entered came over, and taking her hand said, “Come with me, Kathleen,
till you shake hands wid a great friend of yours--wid Misther Burke.
This is herself, Misther Burke,” he added, significantly, on putting her
hand into that of honest Jemmy, “an' I think no father need be ashamed
of her.”
“Nor no father-in-law,” replied Jemmy, shaking her cordially by the
hand, “and whisper, darlin',” said he, putting his mouth close to her
ear, and speaking so as that he might not be heard by others, “I hope to
see you my daughter-in-law yet, if I could only get that boy beyant to
make himself worthy of you.”
On speaking he turned his eyes on Hycy, who raised himself up, and
assuming his best looks intimated his consciousness of being the object
of his father's allusion to him. He then stepped over to where she
stood, and extending his hand with an air of gallantry and good humor
said, “I hope Miss Cavanagh, who has so far honored our worthy father,
won't refuse to honor the son.”
Kathleen, who had blushed at his father's words, now blushed more deeply
still; because in this instance, there was added to the blush of modesty
that of offended pride at his unseasonable presumption.
“This, Mr. Hycy,” she replied, “is neither a time nor a place for empty
compliments. When the son becomes as worthy as the father, I'll shake
hands with him; but not till that time comes.”
On returning to the place she had left, her eyes met those of Bryan, and
for a period that estimable and true-hearted young fellow forgot
both grief and sorrow in the rush of rapturous love which poured
its unalloyed sense of happiness into his heart. Hycy, however, felt
mortified, and bit his lip with vexation. To a young man possessed of
excessive vanity, the repulse was the more humiliating in proportion to
its publicity. Gerald Cavanagh was as deeply offended as Hycy, and his
wife could not help exclaiming aloud, “Kathleen! what do you mane? I
declare I'm ashamed of you!”
Kathleen, however, sat down beside her sister, and the matter was soon
forgotten in the stir and bustle which preceded the setting out of the
funeral.
This was indeed a trying and heart-rending scene. The faithful wife, the
virtuous mother, the kind friend, and the pious Christian, was now about
to be removed for ever from that domestic scene which her fidelity, her
virtue, her charity, and her piety, had filled with peace, and love, and
happiness. As the coffin, which had been resting upon two chairs, was
about to be removed, the grief of her family became loud and vehement.
“Oh, Bridget!” exclaimed her husband, “and is it to come to this at
last! And you are lavin' us for evermore! Don't raise the coffin,” he
proceeded, “don't raise it. Oh! let us not part wid her till to-morrow;
let us know that she's undher the same roof wid us until then. An',
merciful Father, when I think where you're goin' to bring her to! Oh!
there lies the heart now widout one motion--dead and cowld--the heart
that loved us all as no other heart ever did! Bridget, my wife, don't
you hear me? But the day was that you'd hear me, an' that your kind an'
lovin' eye would turn on me wid that smile that was never broken. Where
is the wife that was true? Where is the lovin' mother, the charitable
heart to the poor and desolate, and the hand that was ever ready to aid
them that was in distress? Where are they all now? There, dead and cowld
forever, in that coffin. What has become of my wife, I say? What is
death at all, to take all we love from us this way? But sure God forgive
me for saying so, for isn't it the will of God? but oh! it is the
heaviest of all thrials to lose such a woman as she was!”
Old grandfather, as he was called, had latterly become very feeble,
and was barely able to be out of bed on that occasion. When the tumult
reached the room where he sat with some of the aged neighbors, he
inquired what had occasioned it, and being told that the coffin was
about to be removed to the hearse, he rose up.
“That is Tom's voice I hear,” said he, “and I must put an end to
this.” He accordingly made his appearance rather unexpectedly among them,
and approaching his son, said, putting his hand commandingly upon
his shoulder, and looking in his face with a solemn consciousness of
authority that was irresistible, “I command you, Tom, to stop. It's not
many commands that I'll ever give you--maybe this will be the last--and
it's not many ever I had occasion to give you, but now I command you to
stop and let the funeral go on.” He paused for a short time and looked
upon the features of his son with a full sense of what was due to his
authority. His great age, his white hairs, his venerable looks and
bearing, and the reverence which the tremulous but earnest tones of his
voice were calculated to inspire, filled his son with awe, and he was
silent.
“Father,” said he, “I will; I'll try and obey you--I will.”
“God bless you and comfort you, my dear son,” said the old man. “Keep
silence, now,” he proceeded, addressing the others, “and bring the
coffin to the hearse at wanst. And may God strengthen and support you
all, for it's I that knows your loss; but like a good mother as she was,
she has left none but good and dutiful childre' behind her.”
Poor Dora, during the whole morning, had imposed a task upon herself
that was greater than her affectionate and sorrowing heart could bear.
She was very pale and exhausted by the force of what she had felt, and
her excessive weeping; but it was observed that she now appeared to
manifest a greater degree of fortitude than any of the rest. Still,
during this assumed calmness, the dear girl, every now and then, could
not help uttering a short convulsive sob, that indicated at once her
physical debility and extraordinary grief. She was evidently incapable
of entering into conversation, or at least, averse to it, and was
consequently very silent during the whole morning. As they stooped,
however, to remove the coffin, she threw herself upon it, exclaiming,
“Mother, its your own Dora--mother--mother--don't, mother--don't lave me
don't--I won't let her go--I won't let her go! I--I--” Even before she
could utter the words she intended to say, her head sank down, and her
pale but beautiful cheek lay exactly beside the name, Bridget M'Mahon,
that was upon it.
“The poor child has fainted,” they exclaimed, “bring her to the fresh
air.”
Ere any one had time, however, to raise her, James Cavanagh rushed over
to the coffin, and seizing her in his arms, bore her to the street,
where he placed her upon one of the chairs that had been left there
to support the coffin until keened over by the relatives and friends,
previous to its being-placed in the hearse; for such is the custom.
There is something exceedingly alarming in a swoon to a person who
witnesses it for the first time; which was the case with James Cavanagh.
Having placed her on the chair, he looked wildly upon her; then as
wildly upon those who were crowding round him. “What ails her?” he
exclaimed--“what ails her?--she is dead!--she is dead! Dora--Dora
dear--Dora dear, can't you spake or hear me?”
Whilst he pronounced the words, a shower of tears gushed rapidly from
his eyes and fell upon her beautiful features, and in the impressive
tenderness of the moment, he caught her to his heart, and with
rapturous distraction and despair kissed her lips and exclaimed, “She is
dead!--she is dead!--an' all that's in the world is nothing to the love
I had for her!”
“Stand aside, James,” said his sister Kathleen; “leave this instantly.
Forgive him, Bryan,” she said, looking at her lover with a burning brow,
“he doesn't know what he is doing.”
“No, Kathleen,” replied, her brother, with a choking voice, “neither for
you nor for him, nor for a human crature, will I leave her.”
“James, I'm ashamed of you,” said Hanna, rapidly and energetically
disengaging his arms from about the insensible girl; “have! you no
respect for Dora? If you love her as you say, you could hardly act as
you did.”
“Why,” said he, staring at her, “what did I do?”
Bryan took him firmly by the arm, and said, “Come away, you foolish boy;
I don't think you know what you did. Leave her to the girls. There, she
is recoverin'.”
She did soon recover; but weak and broken down as she was, no persuasion
nor even authority could prevail upon her to remain at home. Jemmy
Burke, who had intended to offer Kathleen a seat upon his car, which, of
course, she would not have accepted, was now outmanoeuvred by his
wife, 'who got Dora beside herself, after having placed a sister of Tom
M'Mahon's beside him.
At length, the coffin was brought out, and the keene raised over it, on
the conclusion of which it was placed in the hearse, and the procession
began to move on.
There is nothing in the rural districts of this country that so clearly
indicates the respect entertained for any family as the number of
persons which, when a death takes place in it, attend the funeral. In
such a case, the length of the procession is the test of esteem in which
the party has been held. Mrs. M'Mahon's funeral was little less than a
mile long. All the respectable farmers and bodaghs, as they call them,
or half-sirs in the parish, were in attendance, as a mark of, respect
for the virtues of the deceased, and of esteem for the integrity
and upright spirit of the family that had been deprived of her so
unexpectedly.
Hycy and his friend, Harry Clinton, of course rode together, Finigan,
the schoolmaster, keeping as near them as he could; but not so near as
to render his presence irksome to them, when he saw that they had no
wish for it.
“Well, Harry,” said his companion, “what do you think of the last
scene?”
“You allude to Cavanagh's handsome young son, and the very pretty girl
that fainted, poor thing!”
“Of course I do,” replied Hycy.
“Why,” said the other, “I think the whole thing was very simple, and
consequently very natural. The young fellow, who is desperately in
love--there is no doubt of that--thought she had died; and upon my soul,
Hycy, there is a freshness and a purity in the strongest raptures of
such a passion, that neither you nor I can dream of. I think, however,
I can understand, or guess at rather, the fulness of heart and the
tenderness by which he was actuated.”
“What do you think of Miss Cavanagh?” asked Hycy, with more of interest
than he had probably ever felt in her before.
“What do I think?” said the other, looking at him with a good deal of
surprise. “What can I think? What could any man, that has either taste
or common-sense think? Faith, Hycy, to be plain with you, I think her
one of the finest girls, if not the very finest, I ever saw. Heavens!
what would not that girl be if she had received the advantages of a
polished and comprehensive education?”
“She is very much of a lady as it is,” added Hycy, “and has great
natural dignity and unstudied grace, although I must say that she has
left me under no reason to feel any particular obligations to her.”
“And yet there is a delicate and graceful purity in the beauty of little
Dora, which is quite captivating,” observed Clinton.
“Very well,” replied the other, “I make jou a present of the two fair
rustics; give me the interesting Maria. Ah, Harry, see what education
and manner do. Maria is a delightful girl.”
“She is an amiable and a good girl,” said her brother; “but, in point of
personal attractions, quite inferior to either of the two we have been
speaking of.”
“Finigan,” said Hycy--“I beg your pardon, O'Finigan--the great
O'Finigan, Philomath--are you a good judge of beauty?”
“Why, then, Mr. Hycy,” replied the pedagogue, “I think, above all
subjects, that a thorough understanding of that same comes most natural
to an Irishman. It is a pleasant topic to discuss at all times.”
“Much pleasanter than marriage, I think,” said Clinton, smiling.
“Ah, Mr. Clinton,” replied the other, with a shrug, “_de mortuis
nil nisi bonum_; but as touching beauty, in what sense do you ask my
opinion?”
“Whether now, for instance, would your learned taste prefer Miss
Cavanagh or Miss Dora M'Mahon? and give your reasons.”
“Taste, Mr. Hycy, is never, or at least seldom, guided by reason; the
question, however, is a fair one.”
“One at least on a fair subject,” observed Clinton.
“Very well said, Mr. Clinton,” replied the schoolmaster, with a
grin--“there goes wit for us, no less--and originality besides. See what
it is to have a great janius!--ha! ha! ha!”
“Well, Mr. O'Finigan,” pursued Hycy, “but about the ladies? You have not
given us your opinion.”
“Why, then, they are both highly gifted wid beauty, and strongly
calculated to excite the amorous sentiments of refined and elevated
affection.”
“Well done, Mr. Plantation,” said Hycy; “you are improving--proceed.”
“Miss Cavanagh, then,” continued Finigan, “I'd say was a goddess, and
Miss M'Mahon her attendant nymph.”
“Good again, O'Finigan,” said Clinton; “you are evidently at home in the
mythology.”
“Among the goddesses, at any rate,” replied the master, with another
grin.
“Provided there is no matrimony in the question,” said Clinton.
“Ah, Mr. Clinton, don't, if you please. That's a subject you may respect
yet as much as I do; but regarding my opinion of the two beauties in
question, why was it solicited, Mr. Hycy?” he added, turning to that
worthy gentlemen.
“Faith, I'm not able to say, most learned Philomath; only, is it true
that Bryan, the clodhopper, has matrimonial designs upon the fair
daughter of the regal Cavanagh?”
“_Sic vult fama_, Mr. Hycy, upon condition that a certain accomplished
young gentleman, whose surname commences with the second letter of
the alphabet, won't offer--for in that case, it is affirmed, that the
clodhopper should travel. By the way, Mr. Clinton, I met your uncle and
Mr. Fethertonge riding up towards Ahadarra this morning.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed both; and as they spoke, each cast a look of inquiry
at the other.
“What could bring them to Ahadarra, gentlemen?” asked Finigan, in a tone
of voice which rendered it a nice point to determine whether it was a
simple love of knowledge that induced him to put the question, or some
other motive that might have lain within a kind of ironical gravity that
accompanied it.
“Why, I suppose a pair of good horses,” replied Hycy, “and their own
inclination.”
“It was not the last, at all events,” said Finigan, “that ever brought
a thief to the gallows--ha! ha! ha! we must be facetious sometimes, Mr.
Hycy.”
“You appear to enjoy that joke, Mr. Finigan,” said Hycy, rather tartly.
“Faith,” replied Finigan, “it's a joke that very few do enjoy, I think.”
“What is?”
“Why, the gallows, sir--ha! ha! ha! but don't forget the O if you
plaise--ever and always the big O before Finigan--ha! ha! ha!”
“Come, Clinton,” said Hycy, “move on a little. D--n that fellow!” he
cried--“he's a sneering scoundrel; and I'm half inclined to think he has
more in him than one would be apt to give him credit for.”
“By the way, what could the visit to Ahadarra mean?” asked Clinton. “Do
you know anything about it, Hycy?”
“Not about this; but it is very likely that I shall cause them, or
one of them at least, to visit it on some other occasion ere long; and
that's all I can say now. Curse that keening, what a barbarous practice
it is!'
“I think not,” said the other; “on the contrary, I am of opinion that
there's something strikingly wild and poetical in it something that
argues us Irish to be a people of deep feeling and strong imagination:
two of the highest gifts of intellect.”
“All stuff,” replied the accomplished Hycy, who, among his other
excellent qualities, could never afford to speak a good word to his
country Or her people. “All stuff and barbarous howling that we
learned from the wolves when we had them in Ireland. Here we are at the
graveyard.”
“Hycy,” said his friend, “it never occurred to me to thing of asking
what religion you believe in.”
“It is said,” replied Hycy, “that a fool may propose a question which
a wise man can't answer. As to religion, I have not yet made any
determination among the variety that is abroad. A man, however, can
be at no loss; for as every one of them is the best, it matters little
which of them he chooses. I think it likely I shall go to church with
your sister, should we ever do matrimony together. To a man like me
who's indifferent, respectability alone ought to determine.”
Clinton made no reply to this; and in a few minutes afterward they
entered the churchyard, the coffin having been taken out of the hearse
and borne on the shoulders of her four nearest relatives,--Tom M'Mahon,
in deep silence and affliction, preceding it as chief mourner.
There is a prostrating stupor, or rather a kind of agonizing delirium
that comes over the mind when we are forced to mingle with crowds, and
have our ears filled with the voices of lamentation, the sounds of the
death-bell, or the murmur of many people in conversation. 'Twas thus
M'Mahon felt during the whole procession. Sometimes he thought it was
relief, and again he felt as if it was only the mere alternation of
suffering into a sharper and more dreadful sorrow; for, change as it
might, there lay tugging at his heart the terrible consciousness that
she, I the bride of his youthful love and the companion of his
larger and more manly affection--the blameless wife and the stainless
woman--was about to be consigned to the grave, and that his eyes in this
life must; never rest upon her again.
When the coffin was about to be lowered down, all the family, one after
another, clasped their arms about it, and kissed it with a passionate
fervor of grief that it was impossible to witness with firmness. At
length her husband, who had been looking on, approached it, and clasping
it in his arms like the rest, he said--“for ever and for ever, and for
ever, Bridget--but, no, gracious God, no; the day will come, Bridget,
when I will be with you here--I don't care now how soon. My happiness
is gone, asthore machree--life is nothing to me now--all's empty; and
there's neither joy, nor ease of mind, nor comfort for me any more. An'
this is our last parting--this is our last farewell, Bridget dear; but
from this out my hope is to be with you here; and if nothing else on my
bed of death was to console me, it would be, and it will be, that you
and I will then sleep together, never to be parted more. That will be my
consolation.”
“Now, father dear,” said Bryan, “we didn't attempt to stop or prevent
you, and I hope you'll be something calm and come away for a little.”
“Best of sons! but aren't you all good, for how could you be
otherwise with her blood in your veins?--bring me away; come you, Dora
darlin'--ay, that's it--support the: blessed child between you and
Hanna, Kathleen darlin'. Oh, wait, wait till we get out of hearin, or
the noise of the clay fallin' on the coffin will kill me.”
They then walked to some distance, where they remained until the “narrow
house” was nearly filled, after which they once more surrounded it until
the last sod was beaten in. This being over, the sorrowing group sought
their way home with breaking hearts, leaving behind them her whom they
had loved so well reposing in the cold and unbroken solitude of the
grave.