“A wake, as it is called among us,” he replied, “is at once the season of lamentation and sorrow, and of feasting and amusement. The immediate relatives of the deceased sit near the body, devoted to all the luxury of woe, which revives into the most piercing lamentations at the entrance of every stranger, while the friends, acquaintances, and guests give themselves up to a variety of amusements; feats of dexterity and even some exquisite pantomimes are performed; though in the midst of all their games should any one pronounce an Ave Maria, the merry group are in a moment on their knees; and the devotional impulse being gratified, they recommence their sports with new vigour. The wake, however, is of short duration; for here, as in Greece, it is thought an injustice to the dead to keep them long above ground; so that interment follows death with all possible expedition.”
We had now reached the burial ground; near which the funeral was met by the parish priest, and the procession went three times round the cemetry, preceded by the priest, who repeated the De profundis as did all the congregation.
“This ceremony,” said Father John, “is performed by us instead of the funeral service, which is denied to the Roman Catholics. For we are not permitted, like the Protestant ministers, to perform the last solemn office for our departed fellow creatures.”
While he spoke we entered the churchyard, and I expressed my surprise to Glorvina, who seemed wrapt in solemn meditation, at the singular appearance of this rustic little cemetery, where, instead of the monumental marble,
“The storied urn, or animated bust,”
an osier, twisted into the form of a cross, wreathed with faded foliage, garlands made of the pliant sally, twined with flowers; alone distinguished the “narrow house,” where
“The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.”
Without answering, she led me gently forward towards a garland which seemed newly planted. We paused. A young woman who had attended the funeral, and withdrawn from the crowd, approached the garland at the same moment, and taking some fresh gathered flowers from her apron, strewed them over the new made grave, then kneeling beside it wept and prayed.
“It is the tomb of her lover,” said I.—“Of her father!” said Glorvina, in a voice whose affecting tone sunk to my heart, while her eyes, raised to heaven, were suffused with tears. The filial mourner now arose and departed, and we approached the simple shrine of her sorrowing devotion. Glorvina took from it a sprig of rosemary—its leaves were humid! “It is not all dew,” said Glorvina, with a sad smile, while her own tears fell on it, and she presented it to me.
“Then you think me worthy of sharing in these divine feelings,” I exclaimed, as I kissed off the sacred drops; while I was now confirmed in the belief that the tenderness, the sufferings, and declining health of her father, rendered him at that moment the sole object of her solicitude and affection. And with him only, could I, without madness, share the tender, sensible, angelic heart of this sweet interesting being.