to the weakness of nature, and becoming speechless by the violence of our tears.  Let the most obstinate unbeliever attend but a few times by the bedside of a dying Catholic, and observe the piety and faith of the priest and people around the bed of the “soul departing;” and if he be not an atheist or a blasphemer of God’s providence, it is impossible for him not to perceive the superiority of the Catholic religion to all other forms of worship that ever existed.  But to be present at the death hour of a Christian is a privilege which Protestants and unbelievers seldom or never enjoy; their levity and want of devotion, with their impiety and irreverence, being sufficiently powerful obstacles to their admittance into such sacred places as the chamber in which the sacred offices of religion are administered to the “departing soul.”  It is only the true believers, and not “those outside,” who have the privilege of hearing the “prayer of faith” that saves the sick man—­it is only they who enjoy occasionally the consolation from the inspiring words of the church to join their tears, and unite their sighs, sobs, and sorrows with those of their pastors and fellow-Christians, for the happy passage and merciful judgment for their departing brother.  Such were the tears and sadness that Paul O’Clery and his little attendants shed around the bed of their dying mother.

“Paul, my child, why do you act so?” said she, gently chiding him.

“O mother! mother! how can I help it?  Stop ye your crying there,” said he, taking courage, and turning to his younger associates.  “Silence Bridget, Patrick, and Eugene.  Answer me distinctly, and hold your grief.  It will vex mother.”  And he continued the prayer from where he left off with as good grace as he could.

The venerable priest, though inside the door, was unperceived during this affecting scene; and the heavy tears might be seen stealing down his furrowed cheeks as he surveyed the group before him.

“O, faith of my Lord, O, best gift of God, how precious thou art!  Thou canst change men into angels, earth into paradise, and convert the misery and poverty of the poor emigrant into a picture like this, that heaven itself must delight to gaze on.  That’s right, my darling son,” said he, “you have finished well; you have done your duty towards your mother, for which God will bless you, and I bless you in his name.  In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.  Amen.”

“The priest, mother!” whispered Bridget.  “I know him by his cloak.”

“Glory, honor, and praise be to the Almighty,” said the calm and now rejoicing widow, as she saw the face of the venerable minister of religion.  “The Lord is too good to me, not to let me die in a strange land, without the consolations of my holy religion,” she continued, kissing the silver crucifix of her beads.

The heart of the good man was too full to give utterance to many words; and seeing that Death was at hand, that already he was master of all but the heart,—­for the extremes were cold and without feeling,—­he ordered the children down to Mrs. Doherty’s, while he heard the short and humble confession of the poor departing soul, administered the most holy viaticum, with extreme unction, and read the last benediction of the church—­“In articulo mortis.”