THE FAMILY OF GLENCARRA.-No. VII. BY SIDNEY O'MORE. Most wondrous book! bright candle of the Lord! Star of Eternity! the only star By which the soul of man could navigate The Course of Time. THE old grey walls of the abbey of Moyne were defined in strong contrast against the snow-covered fields around. The fine arches of the large windows sparkled with innumerable icicles, hanging pendant from the ivy wreaths which festooned them. A bright, yet cold sunshine flung its delusive radiance over the snowy landscape, resembling that gilded lustre which wealth sometimes throws over a chilled home of domestic disunion. From the hard and icy high road turned a female form, enveloped in the large cloak of the country. Proceeding across the crisp fields, under the partial shelter of a leafless hedge, it entered the ruined abbey, and paused beside a small white cross, bearing the humble inscription Pray for the soul of Bridget Moran, aged 16 years. The wayfarer seemed overcome with strong emotion, and wept aloud, as she knelt beside the humble grave, and, drawing forth her beads, recited prayers for the salvation of her daughter's spirit. When she had concluded, she arose and threaded her way among the tomb-stones, until she reached the grave of a priest who had departed in the odour of sanctity. It seemed to be the object of her journey, for her emotion became vehement, as, with bared knees, she bowed herself upon the snowy ground, and recited her orisons with intense fervour. After some time she began to scrape away the snow from a portion of the grave, and succeeded in obtaining some of the clay underneath, which she deposited in a small wooden vessel which she had brought for the purpose. As length her ardent feelings burst through the cold monotony of Paternosters and Ave Marias, and she exclaimed in Irish, Holy Virgin, bless this blessed clay to the cure of my darling Norah; you knew what it was to lose a child, you saw my Biddy and Kieran fade away as fast as ever the leaves did. Oh spare the sore heart, and prevent the light of my eyes going down into the cold, dark grave!' The pilgrim mother turned to retrace the fourteen long Irish miles, which lay between her and her cabin beside Lough Conn. Still fasting, in order to increase the efficacy of the charm, she accomplished her cheerless task. She murmured not, she heeded not fatigue, or cold, for her faculties were absorbed in the illness of her favourite child, and a new hope of prolonging that child's existence gave impulse to her movements, and vigour to her frame. During the long hours of her absence, Norah had felt much curiosity to know what motive could have induced her mother to leave home at earliest dawn, and remain away greater part of the day; but on her return Mrs. Moran eluded all inquiries relative to her excursion. Towards evening the old woman busied herself in concocting a mixture, the materials of which she seemed desirous to keep secret. The old women of our district are very skilful in the preparation of herb-medicines; Norah was quite accustomed to see them made ; and without any suspicion received a black nauseous draught from the hand of her superstitious parent. Mrs. Moran appeared perfectly happy when she had administered her potion; she now felt confident that the incipient malady of her daughter should be immediately checked, and with a lightened heart she sought a much-needed repose. In consequence of Father Barrett's orders, Aileen had been interdicted the society of her sister. At all times this restriction was a severe one to both parties; but when Norah began to exhibit some symptoms of hereditary consumption, the anxiety of Aileen became painful in the extreme. After endeavouring to devise some medium of communication on the subject nearest to her heart, she remembered old Fitzgerald, and requested him to call upon Norah. The reader was not personally known to Mrs. Moran, for her son Cormac had not allowed her to attend his meetings, and his home was not in the immediate neighbourhood. When he entered the house with the usual salutation Go manna Djecan shough,' (God save all here,) Mrs. Moran addressed a stranger, as she responded a kindly welcome.' Norah's eye sparkled with delight as she recognized her former instructor; but she dared not mention his name, lest he should be instantly expelled the cottage. The old man warmed himself beside the cheerful hearth and entered into JANUARY, 1846. 6 F friendly conversation, while the women plied their spinning-wheels. After a time they began to discuss a future state; their discourse had been carried on in the English language; Fitzgerald drew forth a pocket bible to read a few verses on the subject under discussion, but he had scarcely commenced when Mrs. Moran interrupted him: 'Not a word of that, not a word of the devil's book here to bring a curse on my roof. The sign of the cross betune us and harm! My good man, if I knew it was one of the deludthers you wor, you should never have darkened my door. My Aileen avoon was brought asthray by the likes of you, an' that book, an' I can't lose my Norah afther her.' Without attempting to parley, Fitzgerald quietly deposited the book in his pocket, while Mrs. Moran arose, and after crossing herself repeatedly, proceeded to purify the house by sprinkling it over with holy water,* thereby in her own opinion, disabling Satan from taking advantage of the heretical words which had been uttered in the precincts. When her arrangements were concluded, and she had re-seated herself at the wheel, Fitzgerald resumed the conversation, and quietly asked permission to read a few verses from an Irish Tes tament. 6 66 Any thing Irish you may read, and welcome,' replied Mrs. Moran, we all know the devil can't speak Irish, so we can't get harm by listenin' to it. You thought to cotch me listenin' to his book, but thanks to Father *A modern abuse of holy water I will mention. When Ireland was threatened with famine, (Nov. 1845,) Government and the landlords circulated directions for arresting the progress of disease in the potatoe, but thousands of the peasantry in the provinces, refused to adopt any salutary measure, and resorted to their priests for holy water, which they sprinkled on their potatoe-pits, convinced that if the blessed liquid failed, nothing else could avail. Barret; he told me how the devil helped Ludther and the English king to mix up lies in it. Any way, Ludther never got his tongue round the Irish, so he couldn't make books in it. Read then, in the name of the Virgin.' Having offered up a secret prayer that the word might be blessed to his hearers, Fitzgerald read one of the latter chapters of the Gospel of St. Matthew. The sublime narratives of Holy Writ have become so familiarized to our minds, that their accents too often fall unheeded upon careless ears; even the recital of a Saviour-God's sufferings often fails to elicit our emotion, but it was not so with this child of nature, the warm-hearted devotee. She soon left her wheel, and drawing a stool opposite the reader, fixed her eyes upon his countenance, and drank in every syllable with eagerness. He paused-she begged him to continue. She had never before heard the details of the Man of Sorrow's death, and sitting motionless with rivetted attention, silent tears coursed each other down her faded cheeks. Norah witnessed her emotion with mingled gratitude and delight, and offered an ejaculation that this beloved parent might be snatched as a brand from the burning. At length the exciteable and variable temperament of her race prevailed. Mrs. Moran could no longer controul her feelings, but casting herself on her knees, with clasped hands she exclaimed, 'Holy Jesus, blessed Jesus! oh what pain of pains you bowed to for the likes of us, sinners as we are. Oh wirra, wirras thrue! Oh then but that's the blessed book entirely, and to think of me so many years past the black of my bloom widout ever hearin' a word of it. Oh then, but 'twas He that had the raal heart-love; 'deed, an' we ought to |