I'll kiss you,
Harry--I'll kiss you, my heart's treasure, for your noble deed--but O
Harry, you don't know the lips of sorrow that kiss! you now. Sure they
are the lips of your own Rose, that gave her young heart to you, and was
happy for it. Don't feel ashamed, Harry; it's a good man's case to die
the death you did, and be at rest, as I hope you are, for you are not a
murderer; and if you are, it is only in the eye of the law, and it was
your love for Nannie that did it."
This woeful dirge of the mother's heart, and the wife's sorrow, had
almost every eye in tears; and, indeed, it was impossible that the
sympathy for her should not be deep and general. They all knew the
excellence and mildness of her husband's character, and that every word
she uttered concerning him was truth.
In Irish wakehouses, it is to be observed, the door is never closed. The
heat of the house, and the crowding of the neighbors to it, render it
necessary that it should be open; but independently of this, we believe
it a general custom, as it is also to keep it so during meals. This last
arises from the spirit of hospitality peculiar to the Irish people.
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