him that the Fathers at work on the
missions at Philadelphia were becoming exhausted, and that even then the
Rev. Father McGivern was on a dying bed there. Father O'Brien stood up,
and stretching himself to the full height of his massive frame, he
exclaimed, "Look at me! Am I not a strong man? Send me. I'll do the work
for them!" "Does it not remind you of the brave general who said, 'Where
is the next blow to be struck. Send me there.'" When that, his last
mission, closed, the Fathers had heard thirty-five hundred confessions,
and he retired to Ilchester for a cursory visit, where the joy he
experienced in meeting his old Alma Mater superiors was beyond
description. While there he remarked: "Father, this would be a nice,
quiet and holy place to die in." That night he was attacked with the
fatal malady. His limbs became racked with pain. The rheumatism reached
his great heart, and he is found at five o'clock in the morning
insensible. The last sacraments were administered, and at seven o'clock
his noble soul took its flight from its mortal abode.

With an eloquent peroration, Rev. Father Licking closed by craving the
prayers of the faithful for the departed hero of the Cross.

The pathetic musical services were rendered by the regular choir of the
church, and comprised the Gregorian Requiem Mass, Miss Nellie M.
McGowan, organist. The twelve pall-bearers were Colonel P. T. Hanley,
Frank Ford, John J. Kennedy, M. H. Farrell, Thomas Kelly, E. J. Lynch,
James McCormack, Thomas O'Leary, James B. Hand, William S. McGowan, John
Reardon and Timothy McCarthy. Mount Calvary Cemetery was the place
selected for the interment. In His Grace Archbishop Williams' vault the
body will repose until the completion of work now in progress on a lot
specially intended for Father O'Brien. It is estimated that the services
at the church were attended by over twenty-five hundred people, and the
funeral was likewise largely attended. Every kind attention was paid to
his bereaved mother, father, and sister, who came on here from New York
State.

SLEEP ON.

In Memory of Father John O'Brien, C. SS. R.

How short is life, a flitting cloud
Before the blast.
The storm wind roars, the thunder rolls
Then, peace at last.

Oh! Brother, life to thee was short;
A summer's morn
A floweret blooming in the sun,
Then, left forlorn.

Thy heart was fired with zealous love,
Thy courage high.