In the parish of Ballysogarth there were three altars, or places of Roman Catholic worship; and the reader may suppose that the collection made at each place was considerable. In truth, both father and son's anticipations were far under the sum collected. Protestants and Presbyterians attended with their contributions, and those of the latter who scrupled to be present at what they considered an idolatrous worship, did not hesitate to send their quota by some Roman Catholic neighbor.
Their names were accordingly announced with an encomium from the priest, which never failed to excite a warm-hearted murmur of approbation. Nor was this feeling transient, for, we will venture to say, that had political excitement flamed up even to rebellion and mutual slaughter, the persons and property of those individuals would have been held sacred.
At length Jemmy was equipped; and sad and heavy became the hearts of his parents and immediate relations as the morning appointed for his departure drew nigh. On the evening before, several of his more distant relatives came to take their farewell of him, and, in compliance with the usages of Irish hospitality, they were detained for the night. They did not, however, come empty-handed: some brought money; some brought linen, stockings, or small presents—“jist, Jimmy, asthore, to keep me in yer memory, sure,—and nothin' else it is for, mavourneen.”
Except Jemmy himself, and one of his brothers who was to accompany him part of the way, none of the family slept. The mother exhibited deep sorrow, and Dominick, although he made a show of firmness, felt, now that the crisis was at hand, nearly incapable of parting with the boy. The conversation of their friends and the cheering effects of the poteen, enabled them to sustain his loss better than they otherwise would have done, and the hope of seeing him one day “an ordained priest,” contributed more than either to support them.
When the night was nearly half spent, the mother took a candle and privately withdrew to the room in which the boy slept. The youth was fair, and interesting to look upon—the clustering locks of his white forehead were divided; yet there was on his otherwise open brow, a shade of sorrow, produced by the coming separation, which even sleep could not efface. The mother held the candle gently towards his face, shading it with one hand, lest the light might suddenly awake him; she then surveyed his features long and affectionately, whilst the tears fell in showers from her cheeks.
“There you lie,” she softly sobbed out, in Irish, “the sweet pulse of your mother's heart; the flower of our flock, the pride of our eyes, and the music of our hearth! Jimmy, avourneen machree, an' how can I part wid you, my darlin' son! Sure, when I look at your mild face, and think that you're takin' the world on your head to rise us out of our poverty, isn't my heart breakin'! A lonely house we'll have afther you, acushla! Goin' out and comin' in, at home or abroad, your voice won't be in my ears, nor your eye smilin' upon me. An' thin to think of what you may suffer in a sthrange land! If your head aches, on what tendher breast will it lie? or who will bind the ribbon of comfort * round it? or wipe your fair, mild brow in sickness? Oh, Blessed Mother!—hunger, sickness, and sorrow may come upon you when you'll be far from your own, an' from them that loves you!”
* The following quotation, taken from a sketch called
“The Irish Midwife,” by the author, gives an
illustration of this passage:—“The first, meaning
pain in the head, she cures by a very formal and
serious process called 'measuring the head.' This is
done by a ribbon, which she puts round the cranium,
repeating during the admeasurement a certain prayer or
charm from which the operation is to derive its whole
efficacy. The measuring is performed twice—in the
first instance, to show that its sutures are separated
by disease, or to speak more plainly, that the bones
of the head are absolutely opened, and that as a
natural consequence the head must be much larger than
when the patient is in a state of health. The
circumference of the first admeasurement is marked upon
a ribbon, after which she repeats the charm that is to
remove the headache, and measures the cranium again, in
order to show, by a comparison of the two ribbons,
that the sutures have been closed, the charm successful,
and the headache immediately removed. It is
impossible to say how the discrepancy in the
measurement is brought about; but be that as it may,
the writer of this has frequently seen the operation
performed in such a way as to defy the most
scrutinizing eye to detect any appearance of imposture,
and he is convinced that in the majority of cases there
is not the slightest imposture intended. The operator
is in truth a dupe to a strong and delusive
enthusiasm.”
This melancholy picture was too much for the tenderness of the mother; she sat down beside the bed, rested her face on her open hand, and wept in subdued but bitter grief. At this moment his father, who probably suspected the cause of her absence, came in and perceived her distress.
“Vara,” said he, in Irish also, “is my darlin' son asleep?”
She looked up, with streaming eyes, as he spoke, and replied to him in a manner so exquisitely affecting, when the circumstances of the boy, and the tender allusion made by the sorrowing mother, are considered—that in point of fact no heart—certainly no Irish heart—could withstand it. There is an old Irish melody unsurpassed in pathos, simplicity, and beauty—named in Irish “Tha ma mackulla's na foscal me,”—-or in English, “I am asleep, and don't waken me.” The position of the boy caused the recollection of the old melody to flash into the mother's heart,—she simply pointed to him as the words streamed in a low melodious murmur, but one full of heartrending sorrow, from her lips. The old sacred association—for it was one which she had sung for him a thousand times,—until warned to desist by his tears—deepened the tenderness of her heart, and she said with difficulty, whilst she involuntarily held over the candle to gratify the father's heart by a sight of him. “I was keepin' him before my eye,” she said; “God knows but it may be the last night we'll ever see him undher our own roof! Dominick, achora, I doubt I can't part wid him from my heart.”