Year: 1876

The bells that hung in the tower of Linn


ericl Cathedral were made by young Ital


ian after many years of patient toll. He was
proud of his work, and when they were pur.
| chased by the prior of a neighboring convent
| near the lake of Como, the artist invested


the profits of the sale in pretty villa on the
| margin of the lake, where he could hear


their Angelus music waited from the con-


vent cliff across the waters at morning, noon


and night. Here he intended to pass his
life; but this happiness was denied him.


In one of those feudal broils which, whether


civil or foreign, are the undyng worm in a


fallen land, he suffered the loss of his all ;


AID when the storm passed, he found him


self without home, family, friends or fortune.


The convent had been razed to the ground,


and the chef-FU UUre of his handiwork, the


tuneiul chime whose music had charmed


his listening ear for so many happy days of


his past life, had been carried away to for


eign land. He became wanderer His


hair grew white and his heart withered be-


fore he again found a resting place. In all


these years of bitter desolation the memory


of the music of his bells never left him: he


heard it in the forest and in the 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
whispered to him soothingly of peace and
happiness. One day he met a mariner from
over the sea, who told him a story of won
drous chime of bells he had heard in Ire
land. An intuition told the artist that they
were his bells. He journeyed and voyaged
thlther, sick and weary, 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. Ma
ry's lifted its turreted head above the mist
and smoke of the old town. He leaned back
YEARLY, yet with happy light beaming
from his eyes. The angels were whispering
to him that his bells were there. He pray
ed: "Oh, let them sound me loving wei. |
come. Just one note of greeting, O bells |
and my pilgrimage is done"


II was Il beautiful evening. The air was
like that Of his own Italy in the sweetest
time of the year, the death of the spring. |
The bosom Of the river was like a broad |
mirror,rehecting the patines of bright gold
that flecked 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 |
lets that rippled from the boat as she glided |
along. Suddenly the stiffness was broken. |
From st. Mary's tower there came a shower
of silver sounds, filing the air with music.
The boatmen rested on their oars to listen. |
The old Italian crossed his arms and fixed |
his streaming eyes upon tho tower The
sound Of his bells bore to his heart all the |
sweet memories of his buried past; home, |
friends, kindred, all At last he was happy |
too happy to speak, too happy to breathe.
When the rowers sought to arouse him, his |
face was upturned to the tower, but his ewes
were closed. The poor stranger had breath
ed his last. His own chct5-deuyre had rung
his 'passng bell"