THE SHAMROCK. 49 



unwillingness to leave his country ; nor did a wish 

 of returning to it ever seem to cross his mind. 

 Yet was his love for Ireland so pervading, that it 

 seemed to mix itself with all his thoughts. I have 

 no doubt but that the sad contrast which his memo- 

 ry presented, of the wants, the vices, the slavish 

 subjection of a priest-ridden population, to the 

 comforts and decencies, and spiritual freedom of 

 the land where he could worship God according to 

 his conscience, without fear of man, was a princi 

 pal ground of this tender compassionate love to- 

 wards Ireland, and was the means of stirring him 

 up to that constant prayer, in which I know that 

 he earnetly wrestled with God, for his brethren 

 according to the flesh. The language of his heart 

 was, " O that mine head were waters, and mine 

 eyes a fountain of tears, that I might weep day 

 and night for the slain of the daughter of my peo- 

 ple !" 



I well remember finding him one morning in 

 the garden, leaning on his spade, with tears trick- 

 ling down his cheeks. On my approaching him 

 with a look of inquiry, he took up a handful of 

 earth, and showed me that it was so dry he could 

 scarcely dig : then proceeded to tell me, that, be- 

 cause of the drought, he feared potatoes would 

 not grow well in Ireland ; and poor Irish would be 

 all bone, and would be sick and die, before they had 

 learned to pray to Jesus Christ. He dwelt on 



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