Public ledger. [volume] (Memphis, Tenn.) 1865-1893, 1875-12-27
The Rolls OF limerick.


The old bells that hung in the tower of
the Limerick Cathedral we're made BY a
young Italian after many years OF pa
tent toll. He was proud Of his work,
and when they were u-chss ed BY the
prior Of a %neighboring convent zeal the
lake of Como, the artist invested the
profits of The sale in az city villa on the
margin Of the lake, whore be could hear
their Angelus music waited from the
convent cliff across the waters at morn
ing, noon, and night. Here be intended
to pass his life; but this happiness was
denied him. In one OF those feudal
oroils which, whether civil or foreign,
are the undying worm in a fallen land, be
suffered the loss Of his all; and when
the storm passed he found himself with.
out home, family, friends and fortune.
The convent had been razed to the
ground, and the chef.d'auvre of bis hand
iwork, the tuueful chime whose music
had charmed his listening ear for so
many happy days Of his past life had
been carried away to q foreign land. he
became q '~wanderer. His hair grew
white and his heart withered before he
again found a resting place. In all
these years OF bitter desolation the mem
DRY of the music Of his bells never left
him; he heard it in the forest and in the
crowded city, on the sea and by the
banks Of the quiet stream in the basin Of
the hills; he heard it by day; and when
night came, and troubled sleep, it whis
pered to him ~soothingly OF peace and
happiness. One day he met a mariner
from over the sea, who told him a
story Of a wondrous chime Of bells be
had heard in Ireland. An intuition told
the artist that they we're his bells. he
journeyed and yoyaged thither, sick and
weary, and sailed up the Shannon. The
ship came to anchor in the port near
Limerick, and be took passage in a small
boat for the purpose of reaching the city.
Before him the tall steeple OF ST. Mary's
lifted its turreted head above the mist
and smoke Of the old town. He leaned
back YEARLY, yet with q happy light
beaming from his eyes. The angels were
whispering to him that his bells were
there. He prayed: "0h, let them sound
me a loving welcome. Just one note Of
greeting, OF bellsl and my pilgrimage is
donel"
II was a beautiful evening. The air
was like hat Of his own Italy in the
sweetest time Of the year, the death Of
the spring. The bosom Of the river was
like Q broad mirror, rejecting the
patipes Of bright gold that decked the
blue sky, the towers, and the streets Of
the old town in its clear depths. The
lights Of the city danced upon the wave.
let's that rippled from the boat as she
glided along. Suddenly the stiffness
was broken. From st. Mary's tower
there came q shower Of silver sound,
filing the air with music. The boatmen
rested on their oars TO listen. The old
Italian crossed bis arms aud fixed his
Streuping eyes upon the tower. The
sound Of his bells bore 70 his heart all
the sweet memories Of his buried past:
home, friends, kindred, all. At last be
was happy-too happy 10 speak, too
happy TO breathe. When inc rowers
sought TO arouse him, his face was up
turned 10 the tower, but his eyes were
closed The poor stranger had breatbed
his last. His " chefs dauvre had
rrng his passing bell"