wid you here; here I'm sittin' on the bed wid you, achora machree.”
“Catch my hand, thin. Ah, Pether! won't you pity your Ellish?--Won't you
pity me--won't you pity me? Oh! this pain--this pain--is killin' me!”
“It is, it is, my heart's delight--it's killin' us both. Oh, Ellish,
Ellish! I wish I was dead sooner nor see you in this agony. I ever loved
you!--I ever an' always loved you, avourneen dheelish; but now I would
give my heart's best blood, if it'ud save you. Here's Father Mulcahy
come.”
“About the mon--about the money--Pether--what do you intind----Oh! my
blood--my blood's a-fire!--Mother o'Heaven!--Oh! this pain is--is takin'
me from all--faix!--Rise me up!”
“Here, my darlin'--treasure o' my heart here--I'm puttin' your head
upon my breast--upon my breast, Ellish, ahagur. Marciful Virgin--Father
dear,” said Peter, bursting into bitter tears--“her head's like fire! O!
Ellish, Ellish, Ellish!--but my heart's brakin' to feel this! Have
marcy on her, sweet God--have marcy on her! Bear witness, Father of
heaven--bear witness, an' hear the vow of a brakin' heart. I here
solemnly promise before God, to make, if I'm spared life an' health to
do it, a Station on my bare feet to Lough Derg, if it plases you, sweet
Father o' pity, to spare her to me this day! Oh! but the hand o' God,
Father dear, is terrible!--feel her brow!--Oh! but it's terrible!”
“It is terrible,” said the priest; “and terribly is it laid upon her,
poor woman! Peter, do not let this scene be lost. Remember it.”
“Oh, Father dear, can I ever forget it?--can I ever forget seein' my
darlin' in sich agony?”
“Pether,” said the sick woman, “will you get the car ready for
to-mor--to-morrow--till I look at that piece o' land that Dan bought,
before he--he closes the bargain?”
“Father, jewel!” said Pether, “can't you get the world banished out of
her heart? Oh, I'd give all I'm worth to see that heart fixed upon God!
I could bear to part wid her, for she must die some time; but to go
wid this world's thoughts an' timptations ragin' strong in her
heart--mockin' God, an' hope, an' religion, an' everything:--oh!--that
I can't bear! Sweet Jasus, change her heart!--Queen o' Heaven, have pity
on her, an' save her!”
The husband wept with great sorrow as he uttered these words.
“Neither reasoning nor admonition can avail her,” replied the priest;
“she is so incoherent that no train of thought is continued for a single
minute in her mind. I will, however, address her again. Mrs. Connell,
will you make a straggle to pay attention to me for a few minutes? Are
you not afraid to meet God? You are about to die!--prepare yourself for
judgment.”
“Oh, Father dear! I can't--I can't--I am af--afraid--Hooh!--hooh!--God!
You must do some thin'for--for me! I never done anything for myself.”
“Glory be to God! that she has that much sinse, any way,” exclaimed her
husband. “Father, ahagur, I trust my vow was heard.”
“Well, my dear--listen to me,” continued the priest--“can you not make
the best confession possible? Could you calm yourself for it?”
“Pether, avick machree--Pether,”--
“Ellish, avourneen, I'm here!--my darlin', I am your vick machree, an'
ever was. Oh, Father! my heart's brakin'! I can't bear to part wid her.
Father of heaven, pity us this day of throuble?”
“Be near me, Pether; stay wid me--I'm very lonely. Is this you keepin'
my head up?”
“It is, it is! I'll never lave you till--till”--
“Is the carman come from Dublin wid--wid the broadcloth?”
“Father of heaven! she's gone back again!” exclaimed the husband.
“Father, jewel! have you no prayers that you'd read for her? You wor
ordained for these things, an' comin' from you, they'll have more
stringth. Can you do nothin' to save my darlin'?”
“My prayers will not be wanting,” said the priest: “but I am watching
for an interval of sufficient calmness to hear her confession; and I
very much fear that she will pass in darkness. At all events, I will
anoint her by and by. In the meantime, we must persevere a little
longer; she may become easier, for it often happens that reason gets
clear immediately before death.”
Peter sobbed aloud, and wiped away the tears that streamed from
his cheeks. At this moment her daughter and son-in-law stole in, to
ascertain how she was, and whether the rites of the church had in any
degree soothed or composed her.
“Come in, Denis,” said the priest to his nephew, “you may both come in.
Mrs. Mulcahy, speak to your mother: let us try every remedy that might
possibly bring her to a sense of her awful state.”
“Is she raving still?” inquired the daughter, whose eyes were red with
weeping.
The priest shook his head; “Ah, she is--she is! and I fear she will
scarcely recover her reason before the judgment of heaven opens upon
her!”
“Oh thin may the Mother of Glory forbid that!” exclaimed her
daughter--“anything at all but that! Can you do nothin' for her, uncle?”
“I'm doing all I can for her, Mary,” replied the priest; “I'm watching a
calm moment to get her confession, if possible.”
The sick woman had fallen into a momentary silence, during which, she
caught the bed-clothes like a child, and felt them, and seemed to handle
their texture, but with such an air of vacancy as clearly manifested
that no corresponding association existed in her mind.
The action was immediately understood by all present. Her daughter again
burst into tears; and Peter, now almost choked with grief, pressing the
sick woman to his heart, kissed her burning lips.
“Father, jewel,” said the daughter, “there it is, and I feard it--the
sign, uncle--the sign!--don't you see her gropin' the clothes? Oh,
mother, darlin', darlin'!--are we going to lose you for ever?”
“Oh! Ellish, Ellish--won't you spake one word to me afore you go? Won't
you take one farewell of me--of me, aroon asthore, before you depart
from us for ever!” exclaimed her husband.
“Feeling the bed-clothes,” said the priest, “is not always a, sign of
death; I have known many to recover after it.
“Husht,” said Peter--“husht!--Mary--Mary! Come hear--hould your tongues!
Oh, it's past--it's past!--it's all past, an' gone--all hope's over!
Heavenly fither!”
The daughter, after listening for a moment, in a paroxysm of wild grief,
clasped her mother's recumbent body in her arms, and kissed hen lips
with a vehemence almost frantic. “You won't go, my darlin'--is it from
your own Mary that you'd go? Mary, that you loved best of all your
childhre!--Mary that you always said, an' every body said, was your own
image! Oh, you won't go without one word, to say you know her!”
“For Heaven's sake,” said Father Mulcahy, “what do you mean?--are you
mad?”
“Oh! uncle dear! don't you hear?--don't you hear?--listen an' sure you
will--all hope's gone now--gone--gone! The dead rattle!--listen!--the
dead rattle's in her throat!”--
The priest bent his ear a moment, and distinctly heard the gurgling
noise produced by the phlegm, which is termed with wild poetical
accuracy, by the peasantry--the “dead rattle,” or “death rattle,”
because it is the immediate and certain forerunner of death.
“True,” said the priest--“too true; the last shadow of hope is gone. We
must now make as much of the time as possible. Leave the room for a few
minutes till I anoint her, I will then call you in.”
They accordingly withdrew, but in about fifteen or twenty minutes he
once more summoned them to the bed of the dying woman.
“Come in,” said he, “I have anointed her--come in, and kneel down till
we offer up a Rosary to the Blessed Virgin, under the hope that she may
intercede with God for her, and cause her to pass out of life happily.
She was calling for you, Peter, in your absence; you had better stay
with her.”
“I will,” said Peter, in a broken voice; “I'll stay nowhere else.”
“An'I'll kneel at the bed-side,” said the daughter. “She was the kind
mother to me, and to us all; but to me in particular. 'Twas with me she
took her choice to live, when they war all striving for her. Oh,” said
she, taking her mother's hand between hers, and kneeling-down to kiss
it, “a Vahr dheelish! (* sweet mother) did we ever think to see you
departing from us this way! snapped away without a minute's warning! If
it was a long-sickness, that you'd be calm and sinsible in, but to be
hurried away into eternity, and your mind dark! Oh, Vhar dheelish, my
heart is broke to see you this way!”
“Be calm,” said the priest; “be quiet till I open the Rosary.”
He then offered up the usual prayers which precede its repetition,
and after having concluded them, commenced what is properly called the
Rosary itself, which consists of fifteen Decades, each Decade containing
the Hail Mary repeated ten times, and the Lord's Prayer once. In this
manner the Decade goes round from one to another, until, as we have said
above, it is repeated fifteen times; or, in all, the Ave Maria's one
hundred and sixty-five times, without variation. From the indistinct
utterance, elevated voice, and rapid manner in which it is pronounced,
it certainly has a wild effect, and is more strongly impressed with
the character of a mystic rite, or incantation, than with any other
religious ceremony with which we could compare it.
“When the priest had repeated the first part, he paused for the
response: neither the husband nor daughter, however, could find
utterance.
“Denis,” said he, to his nephew, “do you take up the next.”
His nephew complied; and with much difficulty Peter and his daughter
were able to join in it, repeating here and there a word or two, as well
as their grief and sobbings would permit them.
The heart must indeed have been an unfeeling one, to which a scene like
this would not have been deeply touching and impressive. The poor dying
woman reclined with her head upon her husband's bosom; the daughter
knelt at the bed-side, with her mother's hand pressed against her lips,
she herself convulsed with sorrow--the priest was in the attitude of
earnest supplication, having the stole about his neck, his face and arms
raised towards heaven--the son-in-law was bent over a chair, with his
face buried in his hands. Nothing could exceed the deep, the powerful
expression of entreaty, which marked every tone and motion of the
parties, especially those of the husband and daughter. They poured an
energy into the few words which they found voice to utter, and displayed
such a concentration of the faculties of the soul in their wild
unregulated attitudes, and streaming, upturned eyes, as would seem to
imply that their own salvation depended upon that of the beloved object
before them. Their words, too, were accompanied by such expressive
tokens of their attachment to her, that the character of prayer was
heightened by the force of the affection which they bore her. When
Peter, for instance, could command himself to utter a word, he pressed
his dying wife to his bosom, and raised his eyes to heaven in a manner
that would have melted any human heart; and the daughter, on joining
occasionally in the response, pressed her mother's hand to her heart,
and kissed it with her lips, conscious that the awful state of her
parent had rendered more necessary the performance of the two tenderest
duties connected with a child's obedience--prayer and affection.
When the son-in-law had finished his Decade, a pause followed, for there
was none now to proceed but her husband, or her daughter.
“Mary, dear,” said the priest, “be a woman; don't let your love for
your mother prevent you from performing a higher duty. Go on with the
prayer--you see she is passing fast.”
“I'll try, uncle,” she replied--“I'll try; but--but--it's hard, hard,
upon me.”
She commenced, and by an uncommon effort so far subdued her grief, as
to render her words intelligible. Her eyes, streaming with tears, were
fixed with a mixture of wildness, sorrow, and devotedness, upon the
countenance of her mother, until she had completed her Decade.
Another pause ensued. It was now necessary, according to the order
and form of the Prayer, that Peter should commence and offer up his
supplications for the happy passage from life to eternity of her who
had been his inward idol during a long period. Peter knew nothing about
sentiment, or the philosophy of sorrow; but he loved his wife with the
undivided power of a heart in which nature had implanted her strongest
affections. He knew, too, that his wife had loved him with a strength of
heart equal to his own. He loved her, and she deserved his love.
The pause, when the prayer had gone round to him, was long; those who
were present at length turned their eyes towards him, and the priest,
now deeply affected, cleared his voice, and simply said, “Peter,” to
remind him that it was his duty to proceed with the Rosary.
Peter, however, instead of uttering the prayer, burst out into a tide
of irrepressible sorrow.--“Oh!” said he, enfolding her in his arms, and
pressing his lips to hers: “Ellish, ahagur machree! sure when I think of
all the goodness, an' kindness, an' tendherness that you showed me--whin
I think of your smiles upon me, whin you wanted me to do the right, an'
the innocent plans you made out, to benefit me an' mine!--Oh! where
was your harsh word, avillish?--where was your could brow, or your
bad tongue? Nothin' but goodness--nothin' but kindness, an' love, an'
wisdom, ever flowed from these lips! An' now, darlin', pulse o' my
broken heart! these same lips can't spake to me--these eyes don't know
me--these hands don't feel me--nor your ears doesn't hear me!”
“Is--is--it you?” replied his wife feebly--“is it--you?--come--come near
me--my heart--my heart says it misses you--come near me!”
Peter again pressed her in an embrace, and, in doing so, unconsciously
received the parting breath of a wife whose prudence and affection had
saved him from poverty, and, probably, from folly or crime.
The priest, on turning round to rebuke Peter for not proceeding with the
prayer, was the first who discovered that she had died; for the grief of
her husband was too violent to permit him to notice anything with much
accuracy.
“Peter,” said he, “I beg your pardon; let me take the trouble of
supporting her for a few minutes, after which I must talk to you
seriously--very seriously.”
The firm, authoritative tone in which the priest spoke, together with
Peter's consciousness that he had acted wrongly by neglecting to join in
the Rosary, induced him to retire from the bed with a rebuked air. The
priest immediately laid back the head' of Mrs. Connell on the pillow,
and composed the features of her lifeless face with his own hands. Until
this moment none of them, except himself, knew that she was dead.
“Now,” continued he, “all her cares, and hopes, and speculations,
touching this world, are over--so is her pain; her blood will soon
be cold enough, and her head will ache no more. She is dead. Grief is
therefore natural; but let it be the grief of a man, Peter. Indeed,
it is less painful to look upon her now, than when she suffered such
excessive agony. Mrs. Mulcahy, hear me! Oh, it's in vain! Well, well, it
is but natural; for it was an unexpected and a painful death!”
The cries of her husband and daughter soon gave intimation to her
servants that her pangs were over. From the servants it immediately went
to the neighbors, and thus did the circle widen until it reached the
furthest ends of the parish. In a short time, also, the mournful sounds
of the church-bell, in slow and measured strokes, gave additional notice
that a Christian soul had passed into eternity.
It is in such scenes as these that the Roman Catholic clergy knit
themselves so strongly into the affections of the people. All men are
naturally disposed to feel the offices of kindness and friendship more
deeply, when tendered at the bed of death or of sickness, than under
any other circumstances. Both the sick-bed and the house of death are
necessarily the sphere of a priest's duty, and to render them that
justice which we will ever render, when and wheresoever it may be due,
we freely grant that many shining, nay, noble instances of Christian
virtue are displayed by them on such occasions.
When the violence of grief produced by Ellish's death had subsided, the
priest, after giving them suitable exhortations to bear the affliction
which had just befallen them with patience, told Peter, that as God,
through the great industry and persevering exertions of her who had then
departed to another world, had blessed him abundantly with wealth and
substance, it was, considering the little time which had been allowed
her to repent in a satisfactory manner for her transgressions, his
bounden and solemn duty to set aside a suitable portion of that wealth
for the delivery of her soul from purgatory, where, he trusted, in the
mercy of God, it was permitted to remain.
“Indeed, your Reverence,” replied Peter, “it wasn't necessary to mintion
it, considherin' the way she was cut off from among us, widout even time
to confess.”
“But blessed be God,” said the daughter, “she received the ointment at
any rate, and that of itself would get her to purgatory.”
“And I can answer for her,” said Peter, “that she intended, as soon
as she'd get everything properly settled for the childhre, to make her
sowl.”
“Ah! good intentions,” said the priest, “won't do. I, however, have
forewarned you of your duty, and must now leave the guilt or the merit
of relieving her departed spirit, upon you and the other members of her
family, who are all bound to leave nothing undone that may bring her
from pain and fire, to peace and happiness.”
“Och! och! asthore, asthore! you're lyin' there--an', oh, Ellish,
avourneen, could you think that I--I--would spare money--trash--to bring
you to glory wid the angels o' heaven! No, no, Father dear. It's good,
an' kind, an' thoughtful of you to put it into my head; but I didn't
intind to neglect or forget it. Oh, how will I live wantin' her,
Father? When I rise in the mornin', avillish, where 'ud be your smile
and your voice? We won't hear your step, nor see you as we used to do,
movin' pleasantly about the place. No--you're gone, avoumeen--gone--an'
we'll see you and hear you no more!”
His grief was once more about to burst forth, but the priest led him out
of the room, kindly chid him for the weakness of his immoderate sorrow,
and after making arrangements about the celebration of mass for the
dead, pressed his hand, and bade the family farewell.
The death of Ellish excited considerable surprise, and much conversation
in the neighborhood. Every point of her character was discussed freely,
and the comparisons instituted between her and Peter were anything but
flattering to the intellect of her husband.
“An' so Ellish is whipped off, Larry,” said a neighbor to one of Peter's
laboring men, “Faix, an' the best feather in their wing is gone.”
“Ay, sure enough, Risthard, you may say that. It was her cleverness made
them what they are. She was the best manager in the three kingdoms.”
“Ah, she was the woman could make a bargain. I only hope she hasn't
brought the luck o' the family away wid her!”
“Why, man alive, she made the sons and daughters as clever as
herself--put them up to everything. Indeed, it's quare to think of how
that one woman brought them ris them to what they are!”
“They shouldn't forget themselves as they're doin', thin; for betune
you an' me, they're as proud as Turks, an' God he sees it ill becomes
them--sits very badly on them, itself, when everything knows that their
father an' mother begun the world wid a bottle of private whiskey an'
half a pound of smuggled tobaccy.”
“Poor Pether will break his heart, any way. Oh, man, but she was the
good wife. I'm livin' wid them going an seven year, an' never hard a
cross word from the one to the other. It's she that had the sweet tongue
all out, an' did manage him; but, afther all, he was worth the full o'
the Royal George of her. Many a time, when some poor craythur 'ud come
to ax whiskey on score to put over* some o' their friends, or for a
weddin', or a christenin', maybe, an' when the wife 'ud refuse it,
Pether 'ud send what whiskey they wanted afther them, widout lettin' her
know anything about it. An', indeed, he never lost anything by that; for
if they wor to sell their cow, he should be ped, in regard of the kindly
way he gave it to them.”
* To put over--the corpse of a friend, to be drunk at
the wake and funeral.
“Well, we'll see how they'll manage now that she's gone; but Pether an'
the youngest daughter, Mary, is to be pitied.”
“The sarra much; barrin' that they'll miss her at first from about the
place. You see she has left them above the world, an' full of it.
Wealth and substance enough may they thank her for; and that's very good
comfort for sorrow, Risthard.”
“Faith, sure enough, Larry. There's no lie in that, any way!”
“Awouh! Lie! I have you about it.”
Such was the view which had been taken of their respective characters
through life. Yet, notwithstanding that the hearts of their
acquaintances never warmed to her--to use a significant expression
current among the peasantry--as they did to Peter, still she was
respected almost involuntarily for the indefatigable perseverance with
which she pushed forward her own interests through life. Her funeral was
accordingly a large one; and the conversation which took place at it,
turning, as it necessarily did, upon her extraordinary talents and
industry, was highly to the credit of her memory and virtues. Indeed,
the attendance of many respectable persons of all creeds and opinions,
gave ample proof that the qualities she possessed had secured for her
general respect and admiration.
Poor Peter, who was an object of great compassion, felt himself
completely crushed by the death of his faithful partner. The reader
knows that he had hitherto been a sober, and, owing to Ellish's prudent
control, an industrious man. To thought or reflection he was not,
however, accustomed; he had, besides, never received any education; if
his morals were correct, it was because a life of active employment had
kept him engaged in pursuits which repressed immorality, and separated
him from those whose society and influence might have been prejudicial
to him. He had scarcely known calamity, and when it occurred he was
prepared for it neither by experience nor a correct view of moral duty.
On the morning of his wife's funeral, such was his utter prostration
both of mind and body, that even his own sons, in order to resist the
singular state of collapse into which he had sunk, urged him to take
some spirits. He was completely passive in their hands, and complied.
This had the desired effect, and he found himself able to attend the
funeral. When the friends of Ellish assembled, after the interment, as
is usual, to drink and talk together, Peter, who could scarcely join
in the conversation, swallowed glass after glass of punch with great
rapidity. In the mean time, the talk became louder and more animated;
the punch, of course, began to work, and as they sat long, it was
curious to observe the singular blending of mirth and sorrow, singing
and weeping, laughter and tears, which characterized this remarkable
scene. Peter, after about two hours' hard drinking, was not an exception
to the influence of this trait of national manners. His heart having
been deeply agitated, was the more easily brought under the effects of
contending emotions. He was naturally mirthful, and when intoxication
had stimulated the current of his wonted humor, the influence of this
and his recent sorrow produced such an anomalous commixture of fun and
grief as could seldom, out of Ireland, be found checkering the mind of
one individual.
It was in the midst of this extraordinary din that his voice was heard
commanding silence in its loudest and best-humored key:
“Hould yer tongues,” said he; “bad win to yees, don't you hear me
wantin' to sing! Whist wid yees. Hem--och--'Eise up'--Why, thin, Phil
Callaghan, you might thrate me wid more dacency, if you had gumption in
you; I'm sure no one has a betther right to sing first in this company
nor myself; an' what's more, I will sing first. Hould your tongues!
Hem!”
He accordingly commenced a popular song, the air of which, though
simple, was touchingly mournful.