THE TALE OF A TOMBSTONE.
AN IRISH SEXTON'S STORY.
BY DANIEL O'CONNELL TOWNLEY.
Notk. The following delightful little ro
mance Is from the pen of Daniel O'C. Townloy,
fs., the accomplished author of the spirited
poetical brochure recently published iu Tun
J'YKNiNQ Teleukaimi, entitled "The Rooneys."
Jlie presont sketch is transferred to our
Columns from the Catholic World for March, a
juonthly magazine of general literature and
Bcieniie, of more than ordinary excellence, pub
lished in New York by Lawrence Kehoe, Esq.,
at No. 145 Nassau street. The Catholic World
Is issued under the approbation of the Most
Reverend Archbishop James McCloskey, of
Ji'ew York, and while it is especially interest
ing to Roman Catholics, it will be found en
tertaining to people of all religious denomina
tions, and to the world outside of the Church.
-Ei. Kv. Telf.ukaimi.
It is quite true to say that the American
makes a mistake who, in his European tour,
leaves Ireland out in the cold unvisited. He
t least fails to make an acquaintance which
tould not prove otherwise than interesting,
and possibly to find a burying-place whore, if
lie had them, lie might dispose of his super
fluous prejudices bearing upon that island
lind its people prejudices for the most part
legotten of ill-directed reading or formed with
the hasty conclusions of a very limited expe
dience. If a politician, ho cannot fail to learn, ere
lie travels many miles, whether in Connaught
or in Ulster, what he ought not to do with a
people having a desire to see them prosperous
jiud contented. If a historian, he may 11 ud
jood for a chapter unwritten by Hume and
iSniollet, or even by the more impartial
Jlacaulay a chapter jWhich may tluow some
light upon the jause, ever obscurely and often
Untruthfully given, whose e fleet is that spirit
of retrogression which hovers over the un
happy island, and lays its blighting hand upon
every acre from Cork to the Uiant's Causeway.
If ho be a painter, a poet, or a novelist, lie
jnay find in Ireland and her people an Eldorado
Vith mines as inexhaustible as the ore is
yich. If a tourist merely, even such a one as
does London in a fortnight, Paris in a week,
find the Rhine on the fastest steamer upon that
ancient river that brilliant soul who takes
liis sleep o' moonlit nights, and on the days
tyhich follow, sits yawning over dinner till
the shadows fall, and the storied head
lands have been passed unseen even such as
lie, stupid or blast, as the case may be, may
lind in Ireland something to awake to momen
tary energy, at least, his sleeping thought
and action.
Approaching the fall of 18 , having done
the continental celebrities the year before, and
Laving been in England since early in the
month of May. I concluded, before returning to
Hew York, that I should pay a Hying
"visit to - the emerald cradle of that pro
lific raoe which is, in the language of the
fctunip, when it suits the orators to say
So, the bone and sinew of these States; the
great lever which uproots our forests; the
great spade which hollows our canals; the
liuge pick and shovel and barrow that lay
our iron roads over mountain and morass;
and the mighty polling power which develops
the peculiarities of legislators, contributes
most generously to the revenue of the excise,
and to the sustenance of the many good and
Jbad people whose business of life it is to get
this truly erratio people into all manner of
trouble, including jails, and out of it.
With no prejudices against the Irish peo
Jle, and some clear-sightedness as to the
tauses of their proverbial discontent, un
thriftiness, and frequent turbulence, I went
quite ready to sorrow or be glad, just as
either mood, was suggested by my surround
ings; neither to sneer at their emotional enthu
Biasm nor to tum disgusted from their hila
rious mirth.
Crossing from Holyhead to Dublin, I re
mained in that city for a few days, then
"visited the South and West, leaving the
Korth to finish off with. But as the purpose
of this sketch is not to detail either impres
sions of the country or its people, or all the
personal experiences of my journey, I must j
proceed to the narration of the single incident, 1
the object of this writing, referring the j
leader, if his appetite lean in the direction, to
the pencillings of Mr. Willis or the much
more truthful story-telling of Mrs. Hall. My
immediate purpose is gained if I have in a
slight degree awakened the reader's interest
for that which follows, and if he understands
that I had now almost reached that period
which I had set down for the close of my tour
and my return home.
Of the month I had set apart for Ireland
the honne Louche, or if you like the Celtic
Letter, the "dock an durhus" of my feast
1 had but one week left when I found myself
at Warrenpoint, a pleasant watering place
on the margin of the bay of Carling
ford, going northward to Belfast. Here
3 had been two days, rather longer than I had
proposed to remain, but the season and the
place at this time of the year are especially
attractive. So near Ireland's highest mountain
as I then was, it occurred to mo how discredit
able the confession would be that 1 had not
Seen it save in the purple distance, and I con
cluded to do myself the honor of a near ac
quaintance sit upon its topmost ridge, and
liile a sprig of heather from its venerable
crown, as a relic of the nearest spot to heaven
on the Isle of Saints.
"No," said mine host, "your honor must
never say good-by to Ireland until you see
lier only living monarch who has not emi
grated or been transported to a penal colony."
Slieve Donard, the king in question, was
lut twelve miles distant, or rather the village
jiestling at its foot. The road to Newcastle,
the name this village bears, was one of pecu
liar beauty all the way; and I chose, to me,
the most enjoyable of all the ways of reaching
it; I determined to walk there. So, about 8
o'clock, on a beautiful autumn morning, the
dew still upon the grass, and glistening upon
the rustling leaves of the beechea' in a grove
of which my rustio hotel lay tihadowed,
armed with a stout blackthorn, a book
in either pocket, and a light breakfast
in its appropriate department, I set out
upon my journey; accomplished it
most enjoyably, arriving with but a
faint rememberance that I had eaten anv
Jjreakfast whatever, and just in time for the
table d'hote at Brady's.
The hotel was full with the motley occu
pants peculiar, there as elsewhere, to hotels
Jjy the seaside in the bathing season. Among
the guests were reverend gentlemen assorted
la the nicest manner, lean kiue and fat; the
eood-naturod parish priest and the more
eanctimonioua and exclusive curate of the
orthodox persuasion; surly country squires who
i
THE DAILY EVENING TELEGRAPH. PHILADELPHIA, SATURDAY,
had rushed down to pleaso their wives and the
girls "what did they want with salt water?''
the city shopkeeper and Lis prim property,
exulting in evidence of ton in every word and
movement. liven the eye-glassed, red, and
wiry-whiskored Cockney could be seen and
heard, possibly attracted there by the reputa
tion of the "Hirish girls for fine hiyes and
hintellects," or probably from a peculiar
horror, for private reasons, of other watering
places nearer nome, where landlords
:t; nearer mime, wnnrn mil nn a un.ru
less cenerous and accommodating, boinz more
experienced.
i uene, nun mien aa tuese, witn
a few who came to see rather than to be soon.
maue up me guests at itraay 8.
After dinner I joined a party of tho class last
mentioned who purposed devoting the rest of the
alteruoon to an excursion upon the mountain,
ascending as high at least as would enable
then to enjoy a scene pronounced by travel
lers to be one of the finest in a land praised
alike in song and story for its scenio beauty.
The unmingled enjoyment of that ascent for
the labor of the journey was a pleasure, too
is one of the most pleasant of the many happy
memories which I owe to the "Isle of Tears."
The landscape which unrolled itself like a
scroll when we ascended was of remarkabb
beauty. Jtich with all the gorgeous coloring
of the season was spread out, as far as the eye
could reach, the unshorn wealth of cornfield
and of meadow. Here and there a clump of
beech or chesnut sheltered, half hidden among
the foliage, the snow-white walls of a farm
house. Lilliputian figures crept stealthly along
through lane and over pasture, more like the
tiny figures in a Flemish painting than men
and cattle at their labor. The rock-hound bay
was alive with its freight of toy-like fishing
boats, whose white sails borrowed the golden
hues of evening as the sun stole down towards
the heathery forehead of Slieve Donard. The
whole scene, embraced from an altitude
of fourteen hundred feet, is again before me,
and I revel for a moment, whilst the illusion
lasts, in the unspeakable emotion which wa3
born of it.
But as I set out to tell a story whose theatre
is not the mountain, but tho valley under
neath, I must e'en come down again to supper
mid to prose, leaving, however reluctantly,
Slieve Donard and its poetry behind me.
Leaving Newcastle with that regret which
all must feel who leave it at such a season, I
started next morning after breakfast for Cas
tlewellan, where I intend taking tho coach for
Newry, having ordered my luggage to be for
warded there from my hotel at the Point.
Castlewellan is but four miles distant, and
the journey thither was said to be one of the
most enjoyable walks in this romantic region.
The road for the entire distance is one un
interrupted ascent towards the summit of one
of the lesser hills on which the village stands,
affording from every point unless when now
and then a jutting mountain crag overhangs
the path and for a moment intercepts the
vision a view of the broad expanse of sea,
the valley widening as you rise each footstep
of tho ascent adding some new beauty of form
and color, light and shadow, to the scene.
Half way upon my journey I sat down to
rest for a minute or two by the road side, and
lighted a cigar. Under its soothing influence
and that of the scene beneath me, I dropped
into one of those blissful reveries
in which we sometimes forget our carthli
ness for awhile, our souls absorbed in ecstatic
contemplation of the wondrous beauty, yet
still more wondrous mystery, of the Creator's
handiwork.
I had been thus but a short time indeed
when the sound approaching footsteps broke
in upon my thought, followed by the
customary salutation, "God save you, sir,
'tis a heavenly morning that we have."
Replying in the country phraseology, "God
save you kindly," I raised my eyes to see the
passing figure of a stooped old man, with a
spade upon his shoulder, nuniiig slowly
onward 'neath his weight of years,
and in my direction. Always fond
of a companion, when wander
ing in this way, being usually for
tunate enough to meet with those to whom
the scenes around me were familiar, and from
whom I often learned much indeed that was
new and interesting, I arose to resume my
walk. Strongly impressed by the venerable
form of the old peasant, as I deemed him, and
thus attracted, I joined him, making some
casual remarks about the appearance of the
country, which easily opened the way to con
versation. Enough of years have passed since
that autumn morning to have worn out the
then feeble thread of the old man's life, but
palpable to my memory as the recollections of
my wedding-day is every lineament of that
expressive face. I hear again, as I write, the
gentle music of his voice, his white hairs float
before me stirred by the morning mountain
breeze, and I greet again his expressive salu
tation, felt again if again unspoken, "Godsave
you kindly."
To all my inquiries touching the country
round about, and the harvest, then all but
gathered from the fields, he replied in that
simple yet lucid manner common to the most
uneducated Irish peasant when he speaks of
things familiar to him, chastened in his every
remark by expressions of his gratitude to
God for bounties received, and of his reliance
upon His wisdom and goodness in affliction.
His calling, he told me, was a sad one. He
too, was a laborer in the held, but the harvest
he gathered was moist with the tears of many.
Death himself was the reaper. He was the
village sexton.
1 had often before met men of his melan
choly occupation, but the hearts of these
seemed to have been hardened by the very
nature of their handicraft, as they became
familiarized with that sorrow bitterest to
human nature the parting for ever in this
world with the truest and best beloved; but in
the good old man beside me the keenest sym
pathy for his suffering fellow-mortals seemed
to have found a meet and fitting resting-place.
1 learned from hi in that a few rods
further on my way stood the chapel
and burying-ground of Drumbhan, where
for some fifty years back he had
made the last dwelling-places of his friends
and neighbors. Five minutes' walking brought
us to the open gate and to the pathway lead
ing to the modest village church, within whose
saured walls a number of the villagers had
already gathered to early mass.
Guided by my new acquaintance, I also en
tered, joining in the sacred ceremony, which
began soon afterwards.
How is it, I ask you who have accompanied
me thus far, reader, how is it and the
feeling is common to almost all of us that in
Biich a simple edifice as that I knelt in,
paintless and unpictured, unadorned by
the bright conceptions of genius or the
cunning fingers of art; with naked floor and
whitewashed wall; window untinted with
Scripture story, itself suggestive of devotion;
no ornament save the simple embellishments
of the altar; no music save the solemn voice of
the priest, distinctly audible in the respectful
stillness of the place; how is it, I ask you,
that in such a sanctuary our souls seem to
reach nearer to their God in silent adoration,
than when we kneel on velvet cushions in the
templet! of the city, with their graven oak and
marble pillars, their lofty domes of painted
I "lass, thvijr frescoes and their statuary, their
mighty organs, and their hundred choristers?
On leaving the church at the conclusion of
the mass, I rejoined the sexton, who had
stopped a moment at the porch for his spade,
w here he had left it in the angle as we cnterod.
1 followed him across tho yard, and through
tho wicket which Separated us from the bury-ing-gronnd.
Calling my attention to some of
the more imposing monuments of the place.
lie passed forward along the narrow pathway
tnnn fnnn the melancholy task wliieli he bad
told
me was his first duty of this mornintr to
make a grave loruio last, tne very last, of tho
companions of his boyhood; one, he said,
whose death, like Ids life, was all peace, and
that was part of the reward of the gentleness
of his nature, the fulness of which was here
after. j I'assing from stono to stone, to linger for a
: moment at this which told its tale of the early
call of the young and innocent, or at that
which spoke of many years and mayhap of
many sorrows, l stopped near to one which,
from the quaintness of the inscription and
chaste simplicity of its form had a peouliar
' attraction for me. It was a cross in eranite
with a wreath not unskilfully chiselled crown
ing the upper limb, w hilst along the extended
arms was a single lino, "The Widow and her
i Son."
i Leaning on a more aspiring tombstone near, I
read again and again these simple words, all the
while imagination doing its work of making a
! history for the mother and her child, when
' from this my second reverie of the morning I
i was again aroused by the voice of my aged
friend.
i "I see you have been reading that inscrip
tion, sir," he said. "I have," I replied, "and
it has stirred my curiosity rather strangely
' It seems to me that there is much which tho
tombstone does not tell."
I "Very much indeed, sir," returned the sex
1 ton; "look around me as I may at thsee familiar
! forms, there is not one amongst them tells as
sad a tale as this one."
I "Your reply does not lesson my curiosity,"
! 1 said; "and even it it be the saddest ot your
sad experiences, and that I did not fear to
, trespass too much upon your feelings or your
: time, I should ask you to tell me the story of
j those whose resting-place is thus beautifully,
I yet strangely marked."
j "No trespass, sir, no trespass," tho old man
I replied. "II the story bo one to recall a
! scene which will make my old eyes weep, it
, will just be such a one as suits my heart this
morning, bo having yet an hour to spare be
I fore the remains of my old friend can reach
I the ground, we shall sit down upon this grave
I here whilst! tell you tho story ol Mary Dono
van and her boy."
Glancing around to see that no unexpected
duty called him, he seated himself on the
mound proposed. 1 sat down beside him, an
eager listener to that which follows, given to
you in words as near his own as may bo, but
wanting in that richness of accent and figura
tive expression peculiar to his class and to his
country.
Had business or pleasure called you to Cas
tlewellan some six years ago, began the
. sexton, you could hardly have failed to meet a
' good-natured innocent, some seventeen or
eighteen years old, ever to be seen thj first at Bla
j ney's when a traveller pulled up his horse for
I refreshments or coach or car to set down or to
j receive a passenger. Ere the rattle of hoof or
j wheel had ceased in tho court-yard before
the inn, the voice of poor Nod Donovan was
I sure to fall upon the stranger's ear in a greeting
wild, yet musical, and with that peculiarity of
expression which told the story plainly that
I he was one of those to whom, for his own
! wise purpose doubtless, God had been but
sparing in the gitt of mind. And yet there
! was a childish joyousness in his every look
and tone that compensated in some measure
j for his misfortune, evidence as it was that he
was saved from the cares and anxieties com
' mon even to those of his early years.
Ned loved the horses and the cars, and
knew every professional driver that came that
! way to fair or market for miles and miles
j around. He reserved, however, especial
' affection for the regular roadsters, man and
beast; those, I mean, that drove daily to
Blaney's from Newry, Rathfriland, or Dro-
more. The men, well acquainted with his
i ways, never spoke a hasty or unkind word to
him, although he was occasionally self-willed
l in the matter of the horse-feed and the water
ing. The horses naturally returned thealfection
! of one whose attendance upon them was un
tiring. He talked to them incessantly in
public or in private; their comfort occupied
j the first place in his thought. He curried,
w hisked them down, patted and praised their
best points with all the enthusiasm of a con
noisseur, or, when the like happened, mourned
over a broken knee or a windgall as over some
serious domestic trouble, as indeed to him it
was. All this and more of the kind was done
without fee or reward, save the privilege at all
hours of the kitchen fireside and the stables,
with an occasional ride down to the river, "wid
the creatures for a drink," as he would say,
or "to wash the mud from their lugs, and bad
scran to it."
Few days passed, however, failing to bring
him a chance horse to hold for a fine gentle
man ,"wid boots and spurs bedad," or when
he had not an errand to run, or to lend a help
ing hand with the luggage ot some generous
traveller; and with these opportunities came
sixpences, sometimes even shillings, for his
trouble, but oftener just because he was Ned
Donovan. Many to whom his story was un
known often wondered at the glistening eager
eye with which he counted his earnings over,
and at the happiness an additional sixpence
seemed to give him; all this was so unlike the
hourly evidences of his most unselfish nature.
Strangers, less charitable in mind than in
pocket, led astray by this seeming love of
money, not unfrequently thought that much
of the boy's idiocy was put on, and they said
so ; but they did not know him, nor happily
lie the meaning of their sneers. It was amus
ing to follow him at tho lucky moment when
he got a shilling or so in this way, when he
invariably made straight for the bar of the inn
to deposit it with the utmost gravity of man
ner in the safe keeping of good Mrs. Blaney.
He had learnt from bitter experience how un
safe it was to be his own banker, as he had
frequently lost his earnings in the hay loft or
the stable, before the happy thought had
struck him to find a better keeper for them.
Yon would have heard there, too, how he
invariably came at night to withdraw his
funds, and how he always had money given
him. more or less. For there were unlucky
days for Ned, when travellers were few or for
getful ; but his memory was far from faithful
in this regard, and good Mrs. Blaney was more
Hi an kind.
The reason for this seeming selfishness of
Ned is Kftsilv told. He had a mother whom
he loved with all his strange impassioned
nature 11 widowed mother. To receive her
grateful smile in return for the wages of his
industry each evening when he reached his
borne, was the crowning happiness of the
(iod was kindly with him he was not alone,
Bvnonymous with "Idiot" among the Irish
peasantry, when used In this way; tuey rarely
ust me vroru juiot uuicn " ..,
poor boy I ne iiart
a mother, and all that
you travelled that way
mothers love, iiad
you must have noticed their little cottage at
tuo turning going up the hill to St. Mary's.
You may fee it even now as you paas, but
the roses Mary trained them are dead and
gone, tho little latticed window broken, tho
garden weedy and desolate, telling its tale of
sorrow like the tombstone.
Mary Donovan had lived there for many
years since- her boy was quite a child.
She came one morning, ho the gossips said, a
passenger by the coach, somewhere from the
North. Her child was then but four years
old, and then, as ever after, an object
for the sympathy of the kind of heart.
She took humble lodgings, and applied to the
shopkeepers and the neighboring gentry for
employment at her needle, with which she
was wonderfully skilled, they said. The pre
judices which met her at tho first, from all
save tho kind landlady of the "Stag," soon
gave way before her patient, unbending up
rightness of character, and the unfathomable
sorrow that weighed her down, for sorrow is
a sacred thing ; even the voice of scandal
hushes in its presence. Hor past history was
her secret. Whether it was one of shame or
of suffering virtue no tongue could tell.
Silent as the grave to all impertinent inquiry,
meek and humble before her God, and gentle
as gentleness itself witli every living thing,
her mystery became respected, and she and
her b;?y beloved.
From thatcvening when, wet and weary
from her journey, she first awoke the kindly
sympathies of tho hostess of the "Stag"
the same good-natured Mrs. Blaney for
twelve long years tho widow pursued her
peaceful way, earning for herself and for her
child not merely a livelihood, but many of tho
comforts of dress and food which wero looked
upon as luxuries by those around her; and
never did mother receive more fulness of
reward in the passionate love of offspring
than Fhe in that ot her all but mindloss boy.
When he was yet a child, often have I
watched him sitting at her feet, as she sat at
the cottage door or window plying her ever
busy needle, listening to the strange stories
of the fairies and the leprechauns of the
olden times she could tell so well. Of
Heaven and its glories, too, she would some
times speak, to ue interrupted iy some
strange remark, suggestive of more than
human wisdom. Then the startled mother
would fix her eyes upon his face so earnestly,
as if in hope that God at last would shed
light upon the shadowed mind of her be
reaved one, to meet always and ever the
glance of childish adoration, but with it,
alas ! the vacant smile that spoke forgetful
ness already of the transitory ray of reason
that a moment rested there.
Often have I stopped, as I passed that way,
to listen to some quaint old ballad full of the
melancholy music of her voice, and make my
iriendly inquiries for herself and child, sure
to find him in his usual resting-place. My
welcome was a warm one always, and my
grey hairs for they wero grey even then, sir
often mingled with the yellow curls of the
boy as he clambered up my knee to kiss me
We were warm friends, sir, Mary and I for I
and I only, of all living beings, knew her
secret and the story of her sorrow; and this
was the way I learned it.
One day, soon after her arrival in the town
I had just risen from early msss iti the chapel,
and turned in here upon my morning
round, when the voice of some one
weeping bitterly, and the sad wail of a
child accompanying, drew my attention
to a corner of the yard and to the kneeling
figure of a woman and that of a little boy,
seated among the long grass of the grave
beside her. Mourners were no unfamiliar
sights to ine, even at such an early hour, but
the woman's dress bespoke the stranger
and awoke my curiosity. I neared the
grave, and recognized it as that of a
good old man, once the village school
master, who had died two years before.
I knew him well; for many years he
had dwelt amongst us, respected for
himself as for his calling. He had been happy
in the affections of an only child a daughter,
the very picture of her mother, he used to
say, whom he had buried amongst strangers.
In her was centred his every earthly hope.
She was his pride, and her pleasure all the
reward he sought in a life laden with all the
petty vexations of the teacher. She forsook
him and her happy home, and fled to England
with one whom she had known for a few
weeks only, who had met her at Rostrevor,
where her father's fond indulgence had sent
her for the season; forsook all for a husband
scandal said, a lover who, whilst enamored
of her beauty, scorned her father's pov
erty. The old man never raised his
head again in the village. 'two years
of sorrow, and the grave closed over him.
I made it. The savings of his industrious life
still lay in the hands of the village pastor in
safe-keeping for the lost one should she ever
return to claim it; but Mary never claimed it.
I drew nearer, for my heart told me who the
mourner was. J, too, had loved the girl, as
who indeed had not ? I, too, had shared the
sorrow of her honest father, and many a time
had yearned to know the fate of the fair-haired
daughter of his affection.
I drew still nearer; my step was noiseless
upon the grass. I leaned upon a headstone
near me. I spoke the words that pressed for
utterance, "Mary, Mary," 1 said, "You come
too late, too late!"
She started from the grave; an exclamation
of terror and surprise broke from her. She
looked me wildly in the face, as if the spirit of
her injured father stood in shape before her,
and recognizing tho sad features of that
father's friend, she sank, sobbing convul
sively, upon the grave again, hiding her pale
face in the long gras which covered it.
I raised her kindly in my arms, and sitting
down beside her, her wondering yet gentle
boy lietween my knees, 1 heard her sad tale of
passion and remorse. No other ever heard
that story; she asked my silence, and I spoke
not.
From that time forward, year after year, the
penitent paid frequent visits to her father's
grave; her gentle manner asked for no
inquiry, and none was made, and there was
nothing left of the once joyous daughter of the
schoolmaster to challenge recognition. The
lioy, too, seemed to love the place, and often
times accompanied her. For her sake it was
he loved it, seeming to comprehend that here
there was something sharing with him her
affection, some link which bound them both to
the place forever.
Well, years passed on, and, as I have said,
the voice of scandal had long been hushed;
the child had almost reached to manhood, and
the silver threads of time and sorrow had
stolen in among the once golden locks of the
mother. Childlike ever, and uniformly good
and cheerful, Ned rose each morning, and as
it had been for some years, the daylight was
not more certain to enter the pleasant bar-room
of the "Stag" than was the shadow of the inno
cent to fall across its throshold, its earliest
visitor. Evening brought him home with his
caresses, his childish chat, and his petty earn
ings to his mother, who, happy at the plea
sure his employment gave him, was profuse
in the praises that he loved to hear.
APRIL G, 1867.
Anri so matters had tone on for years, Just
as if they might have done so for ever, when
God in his wisdom brought that sore affliction
upon us all the famine and the sickness ui
47. Who that has lived through tnai year i
misery and horror, but shuddors at ine
remembrances its very name recalls t V ho
but wails some beloved one snatched away
with scarce a moment's warning? the child
from its mother's arms; the mother trom in
child's caresses; the youth standing iuu oi
hope on the threshold of his manhood, when
the warm blood froze suddenly in his veins,
the glad visions of his future tailed neiore mm
as the relentless hand of death seized him
with a grasp of iron, leaving him upon the
earth but one hour of agony, and the
breath to sav farewell; the aged Hung lino me
grave upon whose brink they had, trembling,
. . n i;r, witli itinra than
stood lor years cniiguig w " , " , . . ,
the tenacity of the young all, all stricken
with that horror of dissolution; bowed down
as if a curse had fallen upon us for our sins ai
once came the plague upon the Egyptians.
First amongst the victims wasmo ioiig-ineu,
Mtiei.t Marv. With sufficient warning only
to bring the good priest to her side, to receive
the last rites ol her laiin, to press iu ur en
feebled arms her terror-stricke x son, and upon
his lips one agonizing kiss anu her soul was
with its (Jod.
The agony of the boy when once he
realized the great grief that had lallen
upon him was, they told mo, so fearful
and so wild as to wring wun norror v
hearts of all who heard him. After a time he
is somewhat nacitied by the gentle per
suasion of the priest, and the kind soothing
of gome good-natured neighbors, who, dis
regarding the danger ol the mteciion, nan
gathered in out of love and pity. They strove
to lead him irom tne ueainooa; out no, mo
first paroxysm of despair once over, he sat
himself down, silent, yet stern, by the bed
side. He spoke not, he wept not. Apparently
unconscious of the presence of others as of his
own existence, the icy fingers of one hand
clasped in his, he thus sat gazing, motionless
as stone, upon the dead lace ot ins mother.
. On through the long hours of that autumn
night sat the stricken mourner, and though
daylight came, ay, even the sunlight that ho
loved stole in and crept up upon tho bed till
it fell upon the placid features of the dead,
illumining them as with the glory of immor
tality, still he moved not. Dead as tho dead
he seemed, in all but the strange, weird evi
dence of being in his eyes. Stolid he remained
to all remonstrances; silent as motionless to
all words of comfort.
The hour came at last for preparation towards
the removal of the body for the cholera did not
spare the poor body after death, decay set in so
rapidly when, contrary to the expectation of
all, the innocent voluntarily arose and even
assisted at the necessary dutiess, duties which
must have conveyed to him the knowledge of
his approaching parting with her to whom he
stiil clung as lovingly in death as he had done
in life.
It was the afternoon of the day following
that of Mary's death when a few neighbors
gathered to see her home, poor girl 1 I should
not say a few either, for they were many at
such a time, when the dead cart rattled hourly
past the door, and sorrowing and desolation
was in every home.
They bore her from the cottage and along
the way leading to the burying ground of Cas
tlewellan, the parish she had lived and died
in. The wailing orphan walked stealthily be
hind, his head low bent, unearthly pallor on his
face, his fingers interlaced before him, every
motion and expression speaking of the sorrow
unto death, of the mortal agony of desolation.
Mournfully the procession passed along till
it reached tho cross road leading to this vil
lage here; but continuing their journey, those
forming it were suddenly interrupted by a
wild, unearthly err from the lips of the idiot.
"Where are ye? goin', men, where are yez
goin', men, I say? You must take her to
Drumbhan, you must take her to Drumbhan t
She said she would lie there some day beside
her father; do you hear that, men ? So bring
her to Drumbhan, I say 1"
His agony was fearful, his shriek inhuman
in the fierceness of its passion. The bearers
stopped, the mourners gathered around the
boy, but vain was every effort to appease him,
and still his cry rose far above their words of
comfort:- "Bring her to Drumbhan, oh !
bring hor to Drumbhan !"
None there knew, as I have said, the
mother's story, and all believed this but a
wild, unreasonable fancy of poor Ned's; but
had it been otherwise, what could they do ?
The grave was already made, and the good
priest waiting to give the last religious rite to
the body of this patient and enduring
Christian.
Seeing that they again moved on,
Ned suddenly eeased his cry, as if he had
formed some strange resolution which pacified
him, and relapsed into the sullen gloom that
had preceded the outcry of his anguish. They
buried her; he came away quietly with them.
They sought, some of them, to bring him to
their houses, thinking to save him the agony
of returning home just then to miss her pre
sence; but all efforts to lead him any way but
that towards his desolate home were fruitless,
lie returned to the cottage. He sat down by
the vacant bed and rocked himself to and fro,
singing with mournful pathos, snatches from
an old ballad, a favorite of his mother's.
An old neighbor promising to remain with
him that night and care for the cottage till
next day, when arrangements were to bo
made for the disposal of its contents and for
the future of poor Ned, the others went to
their homes.
The shadows of the night came down. In
and near the cottage all was silent. The old
woman crept towards the boy to rouse him
from his lethargy, and to urge him to take
some food which she had prepared for him.
He was asleep. Thanking (Jod for this, His
greatest gift to the sorrowing heart, the old
woman sat down, and covering her shoulders
with her cloak, dozed away an hour or two,
then awoke and watched, then slept again,
again awoke to lind the idiot still asleep, and
then slept again.
Abont an hour after sunrise she started
from her seat, alarmed by an outcry at the
door, her name being loudly called. "In God's
name, what's the matter ? who's dead now ? is
it the priest, alanna "
"Oh, may the Lord be betuneua an harum,"
said a voice from amongst a crowd of excited
people at the door, "if they haven't raised
poor Mary's body in the night ! Here's Brian
an' myself saw the empty grave as we passed
by the chapel yard just now. Sure never was
such a thing as that ever heard of bofore in
Castlewellan anyhow."
"Whisht, whisht, for the love av God,"
said the old woman, "or Ned will hear yez,"
and turning towards the bedside, hoping that
he still slept quietly, she saw but his vacant
seat the boy was gone.
"I know it all, I know it all," she cried.
"As sure as God's in heaven this day, he's
gone and raised her up himself. I heard him
in his sleep, the crature, but thought nothing
of his demented talk. Go after him, men I
Go after him, I say 1 He has gone wid her to
Drumbhan."
They hurried off with many others who now
heard this extraordinary story. Thpy i ran
eagerly down tho hill towards tho vilUge
here. Yod know the distance, maybe ? Tw
long miles at least. Well, when thy had
reached within half a milo of this spot, sur
enough, God knows, they overtook the crazy
boy, wheeling before him on a barrow the
coffin containing the dead body of his mother.
Never did human eye see sight ' like thla
before. He heard their hurried footsteps com
ing on behind him, and setting down the bar
row gently on the road, he turned suddenly
upon them with all the frenzy of the fiercest
madness in his face, and raising up the spade
that lay beside the coffin, and brandishing it
above his head, he cried, "Back, back, I tell
you all; touob her one of you, and I'll cleave
liim t Didn't I tell you to bring her to Drumb
han ? Didn't I tell you she wanted to sleefk
down heie beside her father? You thought
that you were good, did you, and Father Con
nor, too, to put her up in the hill beside the
big church there? But what did you knowt
what did you know ? Did sho tell any of you
last night that she couldn't rest there; did
she do that, I say ? No, no, she came to me
who loved her, to her own poor Ned she
canio and asked me to brine her te Drumb
han; and so I will so I will, I say, in spite of
you all t in spite of you all I"
So saying, ho raised the barrow once again
and passed onward with his burden. They
spoke not. They made no effort to turn him
from lug purpose. Many there were who
would gladly have eased the exhausted crea
ture of his burden, but, awe-strickon, they
feared to approach him, and silently foil be
hind a second time in sad procession at the
widow's funeral.
At last he reached the gate there. I was
standing at it when he came. He wheeled hia
burden along that path behind us, and to the
grave here. 1 followed with the rest, aa
powerless to interfere as they. He laid down
the barrow gently again, and taking up the
spade he had carried with him, began to dig
the grave. I joined him. He looked at me
first inquiringly; then recognizing me, mut
tered something to himself as if approvingly.
Other hands besides ours were soon at work, and
a lew minutes more found Mary resting by her
father's side and the last sod carefully re
placed when, failing only when his task waa
done, the worn-out boy sank senseless upon
the grave.
They carried him away gently, and when
consciousness returned, they soothed him with
kind words. The women blessed him and
praised his mother, and his love for hor, till
recollection returned, and tears for his loss
stole silently down the idiot's cheeks. All
traces of passion had disappeared, and in its
place there seemed the evidence of a new
born intelligence in the mute yet expressivo
sorrow of that pale lace.
Ho went with them without a murmur;
several times turned hastily whilst in sight of
the graveyard to look back, then disap-
pea red.
All that day the picture of that poor crea
ture and the scene in which he played so
strange a part, haunted me at every step.
Still 1 saw him coming aa he did that morn
ing down the hill; the barrow, the coffin, the
crowd walking solemnly after. Still I saw it
through that long, long day, and leave my
fancy it would not. That night I could not
rest. True, I had loved poor Mary and I had
loved her boy; still I had laid away in their
narrow beds many, very many that were dear
to me, linked to my affection by the closest
ties of kindred, but I had never sorrowed, old
man as I was, as I had done that day; never
felt such awe at the untold mystery of our
nature and the wonderful ways of my God.
In the morning I arose early, early for me,
and although no duty called me here till after
early prayers, 1 took my spade upon my
shoulder and came upon my way, feeling
drawn towards the place, I knew not why.
The morning was as beautiful as this one,
and, as I think I have said before, the. season
of the year the same. Already here and ther
I noticed, as I came along, familiar faces in
the fields, and some, too, of my neighbors L met
upon the road; but contrary to my usual cus
tom I avoided the familiar chat so frequently
indulged in when we met each other at such,
an early hour, passing on with a "good mor
row" only, eager to reach Drumbhan.
Some twenty minutes brought me to the
chapel, for I lived then as I do now, a short
mile below there. I went in to say a prayer,
conscious of my weakness, in the hope to
shake the weight from off my shoulders that
pressed me down so heavily. Thence passing
into the graveyard here, I turned my eyes in
this direction to behold, prostrate upon the
grave of his mother, the loving, harmless boy.
My knees trembled as with palsy. How
came he here ? I said, and when ? Why, I
asked not; I knew too well of this love that
was more than earthly. Tottering, I drew
near; I called him by his name. He answered
not. I called again. No voice replied; nor
sound, nor motion was there save the
echo of my voice and my hurried foot
fall as I neared the spot. I stooped,
I raised him in my arms, I parted from
his brow the long hair damp with the
dew of morning. I gazed upon that pale, pale
lace, which, in the holy peace that rested
there, spoke of the goodness and the mercy of
our Heavenly Father, into whose holy keep
ing the spotless soul had passed. He waa
dead.
The sexton's tale was told.
COPARTNERSHIPS.
DISSOLUTION,
The Copartnership heretofore existing between the
lunierBlgiieii, under tho lirinof VAWIKH liKOTiiiKd,
teneca Iruiu this dale.
CHAHLKS E. DA VIES.
PETKK A. VA.IEH.
Philadelphia, March SO, lsw.
The underslKned has thin day commenced the trans
action of a general JtANKKNU AND iUtUKKHAUld
liLMNKSB. at Ko. IXK'K Street.
WOVKKMMKNT sKCUlllTlia of all k1u
dciilt in.
MOCKS. BONDS, and GOLD bought and sold oa
C'mr. miHMon.
WKHCANTILE PAPER and LOANS ON COL
LATh-KAL negotibted.
SAMURL IU. DA VIES.
Philadelphia. April 1, 167.
4 I ttt
DISSOLUTION OF COPARTNERSHIP.
The Copartnership heretofore exlsllug under tba
lirm-iuiue of BIHJOKK A PL'UH, doing buMueNs at
JJos. 1731 and IMMAltKET blreet. la thla day dltt
aolved by mutuul (.'unbent. All persons who bava
ulalniN nualnut the above Arm will present them to
the undersigned lor immediate settlement, and tlioa
who ure ludebied to the same will please nuke early
payment, NATHAN BaoOKK,
Philadelphia, April 1, 187.
NOTICE OF COPARTNERSHIP.
The undtrniKiied have this day formed a Copartner
ship under the firm-name of .11 ROOK K, COL KKT A
CO., lor live years, eurilug the Hint day of March, 1872.
am) will continue the Flour, Grain, and Produce Com.
iiiIshIoii JtuBlnesH, at the old stand, Nos. IT.u and nun
MAitKJiT blretU NATHAN BROOK K.
KllWlllh IT UIT.nr '.
Philadelphia, April 1. 18ti7.
- . WAA.
4 i 12t
NEW YORK DYEING AND PRINTING ES"
TABLISHMENT.-Works oo Htaten Island.
Olllee iu Phlladelphla.No. u North EluliTM hiraeA.
W est side.
This Company, now In the forty-eighth year of itn
existence, la prepared to DYE. C1JANB. nS
j'INlfcU, la an unequalled manuer. all klilda of
ladlee' and gentlemen's Garments and Piece Good.
Ladles' Urwu.ee and Velvet Mantillas, Geut's Ooam
Pit uta. etc.. cleansed. wILhnni fl. ii..j .
l - mnnilKpDHP
I lor' stsiiLrp