The next day, after coming home from early mass, Margaret sat in her chamber toward the east, with Dora and her two friends, Agnes and Violet, leaning on her lap, and watching her face. She had been telling them the story of that miraculous birth, and, finishing, looked up into the morning sky, and forgot them; forgot the sky, too, presently, with all its vapory golden stretches, and glimpses of far-away blue, and saw instead her life past, present, and to come. Looking calmly, she forgave herself much, for had not God forgiven her? and hoped much, for there was no room for despair; and grew content, for all that she could desire was within her reach.
Beginning at the lowest, she had an assured home, kind friends, and a dear and sacred duty in the care of this child. So far, all was peace.
One step higher then. Could the friend who still lived on in her heart forget her in that heaven to which her love had led him? And, weak and childish though she was, with her impatience, her scarcely broken pride, her obstinately clinging affection, could she be altogether unlovely to him? Some strong assurance answered no.
Higher yet her thought took its stand. There was faith, that second sight by which the soul sets her steps aright as she climbs, never missing the way. There was an unfading hope, and a charity that embraced the world. There was God. And all were hers!
As Margaret sat there, the three children leaned motionless, hushing themselves lest they should break that beautiful trance. It was no momentary glow of enthusiasm, no mere uprising of feeling; for mounting slowly, through pain, and doubt, and weakness, she had reached at last the heights of her soul, and saw a wide, bright daybreak over the horizon of a loftier life.
A Glimpse Of Ireland.
I had long cherished the desire to visit Ireland, a country for many reasons so interesting to every American Catholic. The opportunity of making a brief tour in Europe during a summer vacation having unexpectedly presented itself, I determined, therefore, to leave the steamer at Queenstown and make the journey to London by way of Dublin. On the 29th of July, 1867, after a remarkably pleasant passage, we found ourselves, at an early hour of the morning, in sight of the famous Skellig rocks—called by sailors the Bull, Cow, and Calf—and thus gained the welcome advantage of sailing all day in sight of the Irish coast. The first impression one receives from the appearance of the country between Valentia and Cork is sad and desolate; in harmony with the tragic history of the suffering, oppressed race, whose home is seen for the first time, by the voyager from the New World, under one of its most barren and lonely aspects. The only interest which can attract the eye and the mind is that of a sort of wild and rugged grandeur, coupled with the historical associations which give a charm to the names of Bantry and Dingle. The lonely waters, where scarcely a sail was to be seen during the live-long day, told of the suppression of the industrial and commercial life of the Irish nation by the long-continued tyranny of that power which absorbs all its resources to feed its own greatness.
The long, barren stretches, showing scarcely a sign of vegetable, animal, or human life, where for miles one could see only here and there a little shealing and a few sheep cropping the brown, scanty herbage, seemed to give the lie to the well-known, and, as I afterward saw, well deserved appellation of "the Emerald Isle." Expressions of surprise escaped from some of my fellow-passengers, agreeable and intelligent American gentlemen, who, like myself, were on their maiden trip to Europe; and from some others of the party who were children of Irish parents, looking for the first time on the land of their exiled ancestors. The coast is frequently steep and precipitous, suggesting to the memory the many tales of shipwreck in wild nights of tempest one has read in boyhood. The Martello towers stand at intervals along the horizon, like gigantic watchmen looking out seaward to spy the smuggler or the foreign invader, and in the distance the line of the Kerry Mountains completes the view of the wild, desolate landscape. The heights of Bantry are rendered for ever sacred and memorable by the martyrdom of the Franciscan fathers, Donald and Healy, in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. They were revisiting the ruined monastery of Bantry, for the purpose of ministering to the spiritual wants of their poor, persecuted flock, when they were seized by the agents of the glorious reformation, tied back to back, and hurled headlong down the precipice into the ocean. What a wonder that the Irish people are so insensible to the value of a gospel brought to them with so much pains and trouble, so kindly presented to them, enforced by such lovely examples of Christian virtue, and supported so long, notwithstanding their obstinacy, at such great expense!