THE WHITE ROSE. 85 



gone to Him whose compassionate bosom is ever 

 open to receive his lambs ; his hand always extend 

 ed to wipe the tear-drops — the few and transient 

 tear-drops of infancy — for ever from their eyes. 



But I must return to the Irish baby, who lay in 

 state, not after the fashion of this world's great ones, 

 but to indulge the fond and superstitious feelings 

 of his family : three generations of whom had as- 

 sisted to adorn him for this customary display. 

 Glancing around me, I beheld with surprise four 

 large candles burning, though scarcely visible in 

 the glowing sunbeams that fell upon them from a 

 western window. Behind these superfluous lights, 

 a large crucifix was fastened to the wall, termina- 

 ting in a bowl well filled with holy water. On a 

 table, together with the good cheer inseparable 

 from a wake, were displayed other symbols of a 

 worship clearly idolatrous : while whispered invo- 

 cations, addressed to the helpless mediators on 

 whom the church of Rome instructs her deluded 

 people to call, completed a scene that filled my 

 heart with sadness when I looked upon the living, 

 and my soul with rejoicing, as again I turned to 

 contemplate the dead. 



It is impossible to describe the force of the con- 

 trast. The paraphernalia of a worship at once 

 sensual and senseless, mingled with the gross ali- 

 ment of the body, with the coarse luxuries of to- 

 bacco, and snuff, bottles of whiskey and jugs of 



8 



