“Now, sir,” he observed, but with great difficulty, “let me have your
blessin' an' your prayers; an' along wid that, your Reverence, if you
remimber a request I once made to you”--
“I remember it well,” replied the priest; “you allude to the masses
which you-wished I me to say for you, should I ever receive Orders. Make
your mind easy on that point. I not only shall offer up mass for the
repose of your soul, but I can assure you that I have mentioned you by
name in every mass which I celebrated since my ordination.”
He then proceeded to direct the mind of his dying benefactor to such
subjects as were best calculated to comfort and strengthen him.
About day-break the next morning, this man of many virtues, after
struggling rather severely for two hours preceding his death, passed
into eternity, there to enjoy the recompense of a well-spent life.
When he was dead, the priest, who never left him during the night,
approached the bed, and after surveying his benevolent features, now
composed in the stillness of death, exclaimed--
“Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord, for they rest from their
labors, and their works do follow them!”
Having uttered the words aloud, he sat down beside the bed, buried his
face in his handkerchief, and wept.
He was now only a short day's journey from home, and as his presence, he
knew, would be rather a restraint upon a family so much in affliction,
he bade them farewell, and proceeded on his way. He travelled slowly,
and, as every well-known hill or lake appeared to him, his heart
beat quickly, his memory gave up its early stores, and his affections
prepared themselves for the trial that was before them.
“It is better for me not to arrive,” thought he, “until the family
shall have returned from their daily labor, and are collected about the
hearth.”
In the meantime, many an impression of profound and fervid piety
came over him, when he reflected upon the incontrovertible proofs of
providential protection and interference which had been, during his
absence from home, under his struggles, and, in his good fortune, so
clearly laid before him. “Deep,” he exclaimed, “is the gratitude I owe
to God for this; may I never forget to acknowledge it!”
It was now about seven o'clock; the evening was calm, and the sun
shone with that clear amber light which gives warmth, and the power of
exciting tenderness to natural scenery. He had already gained the ascent
which commanded a view of the rich sweep of country that reposed below.
There it lay--his native home--his native parish--bathed in the light
and glory of the hour. Its fields were green--its rivers shining like
loosened silver; its meadows already studded with hay-cocks, its green
pastures covered with sheep, and its unruffled lakes reflecting the
hills under which they lay. Here and there a gentleman's residence rose
among the distant trees, and well did he recognize the church spire
that cut into the western sky on his right. It is true, nothing of the
grandeur and magnificence of nature was there; everything was simple in
its beauty. The quiet charm, the serene light, the air of happiness
and peace that reposed upon all he saw, stirred up a thousand tender
feelings in a heart whose gentle character resembled that of the
prospect which it felt so exquisitely. The smoke of a few farm-houses
and cottages rose in blue, graceful columns to the air, giving just
that appearance of life which was necessary; and a figure or two, with
lengthened shadows, moved across the fields and meadows a little below
where he stood.
But our readers need not to be told, that there was one spot which,
beyond all others, riveted his attention. On that spot his eager eye
rested long and intensely. The spell of its remembrance had clung to
his early heart: he had never seen it in his dreams without weeping;
and often had the agitation of his imaginary sorrow awoke him with his
eye-lashes steeped in tears. He looked down on it steadily. At length he
was moved with a strong sensation like grief: he sobbed twice or thrice,
and the tears rolled in showers from his eyes. His gathering affections
were relieved by this: he felt lighter, and in the same slow manner rode
onward to his father's house.
To this there were two modes of access: one by a paved bridle-way, or
boreen, that ran up directly before the door--the other by a green lane,
that diverged from the boreen about a furlong below the house. He took
the latter, certain that the family could not notice his approach, nor
hear the noise of his horse's footsteps, until he could arrive at the
very threshold.. On dismounting, he felt that he could scarcely walk. He
approached the door, however, as steadily as he could. He entered--and
the family, who had just finished their supper, rose up, as a mark of
their respect to the stranger.
“Is this,” he inquired, “the house in which Dominick M'Evoy lives?”
“That's my name, sir,” replied Dominick. “The family, I trust,
are--all--well? I have been desired--but--no--no--I cannot--I
cannot--father!--mother!
“It's him!” shrieked the mother--“Its himself!--Jemmy”
“Jemmy!--Jemmy!” shouted the lather, with a cry of joy which might be
heard far beyond the house.
“Jemmy!--our poor Jemmy!--Jemmy!!” exclaimed his brothers and sisters.
“Asy, childhre,” said the father--“asy; let the mother to him--let her
to him. Who has the right that she has? Vara, asthore--Vara, think of
yourself. God of heaven! what is comin' over her?--Her brain's turned!”
“Father, don't remove her,” said the son. “Leave her arms where they
are: it's long since they encircled my neck before. Often--often would I
have given the wealth of the universe to be encircled in my blessed and
beloved mother's arms! Yes, yes!--Weep, my father--weep, each of
you. You see those tears:--consider them as a proof that I have never
forgotten you! Beloved mother! recollect yourself: she knows me not--her
eyes wander!--I fear the shock has been too much for her. Place a chair
at the door, and I will bring her to the air.”
After considerable effort, the mother's faculties were restored so far
as to be merely conscious that our hero was her son. She had not yet
shed a tear, but now she surveyed his countenance, smiled and named
him, placed her hands upon him, and examined his dress with a singular
blending of conflicting emotions, but still without being thoroughly
collected.
“I will speak to her,” said Jemmy, “in Irish, it will go directly to her
heart:--_Mhair, avourneen, tha ma, laht, anish!_--Mother, my darling, I
am with you at last.”
“_Shamus, aroon, vick machree, wuil thu Ihum? wuil thu--wuil thu
Ihum?_--Jemmy, my beloved, son of my heart, are you with me?--are
you--are you with me?”
“_Ish maheen a tha in, a vair dheelish machree_--It is I who am with
you, beloved mother of my heart!”
She smiled again--but only for a moment. She looked at him, laid his
head upon her bosom, bedewed his face with her tears, and muttered out,
in a kind of sweet, musical cadence, the Irish cry of joy.
We are incapable of describing the scene further. Our readers must be
contented to know, that the delight and happiness of our hero's whole
family were complete. Their son, after many years of toil and struggle,
had at length succeeded, by a virtuous course of action, in raising them
from poverty to comfort, and in effecting his own object, which was,
to become a member of the Catholic priesthood. During all his trials he
never failed to rely on God; and it is seldom that those who rely upon
Him, when striving to attain a laudable purpose, are ever ultimately
disappointed.
*****
We regret to inform our readers, that the poor scholar is dead! He did
not, in fact, long survive the accomplishment of his wishes. But as we
had the particulars of his story from his nearest friends, we thought
his virtues of too exalted a nature to pass into oblivion without some
record, however humble. He died as he had lived--the friend of God and
of man.