THE BELLS OF LIMERICK.

Dunstan Times, Issue 732, 28 April 1876, Page 3

THE BELLS OF LIMERICK.

The old bells that hung in the tower of Limerick Cathedral avere made by a young Italian after many years of patient toil. He avas proud of his avork, and avhen they were purchased by the prior of a neighboring convent, near the Lake of Como, the artist invested the profits of the snle in a pretty villa on the margin of the lake, avhere he could hear their Angel’s music ovafted from tho convent cliff across the avaters morning, noon, and night. Here he intended to pass his life ; but this happiness avas denied him. In one of those feudal broils avhich, whether civil or foreign, are the undying avorm in a fallen land, he suffered tho loss of his all ; and when tho storm passed he found himself avithout home, family, friends, and fortune. Tho convent had been razed to the ground, and tho c.hifs-d'ceuvre of his handiwork, the tuneful chimes whose music had charmed his listening car for so many happy days of his past life, had been carried away to a foreign land. He became a wanderer. His hair grew white and his heart withered before ho again found a resting-place. In all these years of bitter desolation the memory of the music of his bells nearer left him ; he heard it in the forest and in the crowded city, on the sea, and by tho banks of the quiet stream in the basin of tho hills ; he heard it by day, and when night came, and troubled sleep, it avhispered to him soothingly of peace and happiness. One day he met a mariner from oarer the seas, who told him a story of a avondrous chime of bells he had heard in Ireland. An intuition told the artist that they avere his hells. He journeyed and voyaged thither, sick and aveary, and sailed up the Shannon. The ship came to anchor in the port near Limerick, and he took passage in a small boat for the purpose of reaching the city. Before him the tall steeple of St. Mary’s lifted its turretted head above the mist and smoke of the old town. He leaned back wearily yet avith a happy light beaming from his eyes. The angels avere avhispering to him that his hells avere there. He prayed: “Oh, let them sound me a loving aareicome ! Just one note of greeting, O bells ! and my pilgrimage is done !” It avas a beautiful evening. "The air was like that of his own Italy in the saveetest time of the year, the death of the spring. Tho bosom of the river avas like a broad mirror, reflecting the patines of bright gold that flocked tho blue sky, the towers, and the streets of the old town in its clear depths. Tho lights of tho city danced upon the wavelets that rippled from the boat as she glided along. Suddenly the stillness abas broken. From St. Mary’s tower there came a shower of silver sound, filling the air avith music. Tho boatmen rested on their oars to listen Tho old Italian crossed bis arms and fixed bis streaming eyes upon the toaver. The sound of his hells boro to his heart all the savcct memories of his buried past: home, friends, kindred, all. At last he avas happy—too happy to breathe. When the rowers sought to arouse him, his face was upturned to tho tower, but bis eyes avere closed. Tbo poor stranger had breathed his last. His oavn chefs-d’ceuvre. had rung his “passing knell." —Harper’s Magazine. (Reading matter continued on page 4.)