The Poor Scholar: Traits And Stories Of The Irish Peasantry, The Works of; William Carleton, Volume ThreeCarleton, William
General
The Poor Scholar: Traits And Stories Of The Irish Peasantry, The Works of; William Carleton, Volume Three
Carleton, William
Ireland -- Social life and customs -- Fiction
He was now only a short day's journey from home, and as his presence, he
knew, would be rather a restraint upon a family so much in affliction,
he bade them farewell, and proceeded on his way. He travelled slowly,
and, as every well-known hill or lake appeared to him, his heart
beat quickly, his memory gave up its early stores, and his affections
prepared themselves for the trial that was before them.
“It is better for me not to arrive,” thought he, “until the family
shall have returned from their daily labor, and are collected about the
hearth.”
In the meantime, many an impression of profound and fervid piety
came over him, when he reflected upon the incontrovertible proofs of
providential protection and interference which had been, during his
absence from home, under his struggles, and, in his good fortune, so
clearly laid before him. “Deep,” he exclaimed, “is the gratitude I owe
to God for this; may I never forget to acknowledge it!”
It was now about seven o'clock; the evening was calm, and the sun
shone with that clear amber light which gives warmth, and the power of
exciting tenderness to natural scenery. He had already gained the ascent
which commanded a view of the rich sweep of country that reposed below.
There it lay--his native home--his native parish--bathed in the light
and glory of the hour. Its fields were green--its rivers shining like
loosened silver; its meadows already studded with hay-cocks, its green
pastures covered with sheep, and its unruffled lakes reflecting the
hills under which they lay. Here and there a gentleman's residence rose
among the distant trees, and well did he recognize the church spire
that cut into the western sky on his right. It is true, nothing of the
grandeur and magnificence of nature was there; everything was simple in
its beauty. The quiet charm, the serene light, the air of happiness
and peace that reposed upon all he saw, stirred up a thousand tender
feelings in a heart whose gentle character resembled that of the
prospect which it felt so exquisitely. The smoke of a few farm-houses
and cottages rose in blue, graceful columns to the air, giving just
that appearance of life which was necessary; and a figure or two, with
lengthened shadows, moved across the fields and meadows a little below
where he stood.
But our readers need not to be told, that there was one spot which,
beyond all others, riveted his attention. On that spot his eager eye
rested long and intensely. The spell of its remembrance had clung to
his early heart: he had never seen it in his dreams without weeping;
and often had the agitation of his imaginary sorrow awoke him with his
eye-lashes steeped in tears. He looked down on it steadily. At length he
was moved with a strong sensation like grief: he sobbed twice or thrice,
and the tears rolled in showers from his eyes. His gathering affections
were relieved by this: he felt lighter, and in the same slow manner rode
onward to his father's house.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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