Caring For Earth Steffi Cavellclarke download

https://ebookbell.com/product/caring-for-earth-steffi-
cavellclarke-48735016

Explore and download more ebooks at ebookbell.com

Here are some recommended products that we believe you will be
interested in. You can click the link to download.

Caring For Place Community Development In Rural England Patsy Healey

https://ebookbell.com/product/caring-for-place-community-development-
in-rural-england-patsy-healey-46255962

Caring For The Displaced And Uninsured Clinical Case Studies In

Nursing And Healthcare Leslie Nealboylan

https://ebookbell.com/product/caring-for-the-displaced-and-uninsured-
clinical-case-studies-in-nursing-and-healthcare-leslie-
nealboylan-46515358

Caring For A Loved One With Aphasia After Stroke A Narrativebased

Support Guide For Caregivers Families And Friends Jennifer L Mozeiko

https://ebookbell.com/product/caring-for-a-loved-one-with-aphasia-
after-stroke-a-narrativebased-support-guide-for-caregivers-families-
and-friends-jennifer-l-mozeiko-47278122

Caring For The Perioperative Patient 2e May 10

20131405188502wileyblackwell Paul Wicker

https://ebookbell.com/product/caring-for-the-perioperative-
patient-2e-may-10-20131405188502wileyblackwell-paul-wicker-48473954
Caring For The Perioperative Patient Blackwell 2006 Paul Wicker

https://ebookbell.com/product/caring-for-the-perioperative-patient-
blackwell-2006-paul-wicker-48474112

Caring For Patients At The End Of Life Facing An Uncertain Future

Together Timothy E Quill

https://ebookbell.com/product/caring-for-patients-at-the-end-of-life-
facing-an-uncertain-future-together-timothy-e-quill-51374280

Caring For The Holy Land Filipina Domestic Workers In Israel Claudia
Liebelt

https://ebookbell.com/product/caring-for-the-holy-land-filipina-
domestic-workers-in-israel-claudia-liebelt-51747346

Caring For The Dead In Ancient Israel 1st Edition Kerry M Sonia

https://ebookbell.com/product/caring-for-the-dead-in-ancient-
israel-1st-edition-kerry-m-sonia-51881992

Caring For Lesbian And Gay People A Clinical Guide Allan D Peterkin
Cathy Risdon

https://ebookbell.com/product/caring-for-lesbian-and-gay-people-a-
clinical-guide-allan-d-peterkin-cathy-risdon-51915420
Random documents with unrelated
content Scribd suggests to you:
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Graham's
Magazine, Vol. XXXVI, No. 2, February 1850
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away
or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License
included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the
laws of the country where you are located before using this
eBook.

Title: Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXVI, No. 2, February 1850

Author: Various

Editor: George R. Graham

Release date: August 19, 2018 [eBook #57733]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed

Proofreaders Canada team at
http://www.pgdpcanada.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S

MAGAZINE, VOL. XXXVI, NO. 2, FEBRUARY 1850 ***
 THE VALENTINE.
Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine by W. E. Tucker.
 GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
Vol. XXXVI. February, 1850. No. 2.

Table of Contents
Fiction, Literature and Articles

February
Patrick O’Brien
The Young Artist
Love’s Influence
The Two Portraits
Myrrah Of Tangiers
The Wilkinsons
Fanny Day’s Presentiment
Gems From Moore’s Irish Melodies. No. II.—The Last
Rose of Summer
The Revealings of a Heart
Life of General Joseph Warren
Editor’s Table
Review of New Books

Poetry, Music, and Fashion

 Wit And Beauty
A Household Dirge
The Pirate
Sonnets.—at Twilight
Song
Night Thoughts
Ballads of the Campaign in Mexico
A Spanish Romance
To A. R.
The Pale Thinker
The Evil Eye
Fancies About a Portrait
The Dream of Youth
Le Follet
Wissahikon Waltz

Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XXXVI. PHILADELPHIA, February, 1850.

No. 2.

FEBRUARY.
 The flowers which cold in prison kept
Now laugh the frost to scorn.
Richard Edwards. 1523.

Among the ancient manuscripts in the British Museum there is one

of Saxon origin, written by Ethelgar, a writer of some note in the
tenth century. Commenting on the months, he speaks of February,
which he calls Sprout kele, because colewort, a kind of cabbage,
which was the chief sustenance of the husbandmen in those days,
began to yield wholesome young sprouts during this month. Some
centuries after, this name was modernized by the Romans, who
offered their expiatory sacrifices at this season of the year, and
called Februalia. Frequently during this month the cold is abated for
a short time, and fine days and hasty thaws take the place of rigid
frost. From this peculiarity, this month has often been called by
ancient writers by the expressive name of “February fill dike.”
Clare’s verses are sweetly descriptive of this changing season —

The snow has left the cottage top;

The thatch moss grows in brighter green;
And eaves in quick succession drop,
Where pinning icicles have been;
Pitpatting with a pleasant noise,
In tubs set by the cottage door;
While ducks and geese, with happy joys,
Plunge in the yard-pond brimming o’er.

The sun peeps through the window pane;

Which children mark with laughing eye:
And in the wet street steal again,
To tell each other Spring is nigh:
Then, as young Hope the past recalls,
In playing groups they often draw,
To build beside the sunny walls
Their spring-time huts of sticks and straw.
 And oft in pleasure’s dreams they hie
Round homesteads by the village side,
Scratching the hedgerow mosses by,
Where painted pooty shells abide;
Mistaking oft the ivy spray
For leaves that come with budding Spring,
And wondering in their search for play
Why birds delay to build and sing.

The mavis-thrush with wild delight

Upon the orchard’s dripping tree,
Mutters, to see the day so bright,
Fragments of young Hope’s poesy:
And dame oft stops her buzzing wheel
To hear the robin’s note once more,
Who tootles while he pecks his meal
From sweet-briar hips beside the door.

The frost often returns after a few days, and binds Nature with
his iron hand. In Great Britain, where the Spring is much earlier than
with us, February is remarkable for what is termed the “runs” of
moles.
Le Count, a French naturalist, records some interesting notices of
the nature of moles, (an animal not very common in this cold
climate,) as well as the speed at which they travel through their
underground galleries. He observes, “They are very voracious, and
die of hunger if kept without food for twelve hours. They commence
throwing up their hillocks in the month of February, and making
preparations for their summer campaign, constructing for
themselves runs in various directions, to enable them to escape in
case of danger; and also as a means of procuring their food. These
runs communicate with one another, and unite at one point; at this
centre the female establishes her head-quarters, and forms a
separate habitation for her young, taking care that both shall be on
a higher level than the runs, and as nearly as possible even with the
ground, and any moisture that may penetrate is carried off by the
runs. This dormitory, if it may be so styled, is generally placed at the
foot of a wall, or near a hedge or a tree, where it has less chance of
being broken in. When so placed, no external embankment gives
token of its presence; but when the soil is light a large heap of earth
is generally thrown over it. Being susceptible of the slightest noise or
vibration of the earth, the mole, in case of surprise, at once betakes
itself to its safety runs.”
We sometimes, though rarely, find the snow-drops, “fair maids of
February,” as they are called, peeping through their mantle of snow,
and the gentle aconite, with its

“Green leaf furling round its cup of gold,”

giving life and animation to the otherwise dank and desolate border.
Leigh Hunt in describing this month says, “If February were not the
precursor of Spring, it would be the least pleasant month in the
whole year, November not excepted. The thaws coming so suddenly
produce freshets, and a clammy moisture, which is the most
disagreeable of winter sensations.

Various signs of returning Spring—

——songful Spring—
Whose looks are melody,

occur at different times during this month. The month of February in

England may well be compared to the month of April in America.”
The author of “The Sabbath” thus vividly paints the sterility of
this month, and its effects upon the “rural populace.”
 All outdoor work
Now stands; the wagoner, with wish-bound feet,
And wheel-spokes almost filled, his destined stage
Scarcely can gain. O’er hill, and vale, and wood,
Sweeps the snow-pinioned blast, and all things veils
In white array, disguising to the view;
Objects well known, now faintly recognized;
One color clothes the mountain and the plain,
Save where the feathery flakes melt as they fall
Upon the deep blue stream, or scowling lake,
Or where some beetling rock o’er jutting hangs
Above the vaulty precipice’s cove.
Formless, the pointed cairn now scarce o’ertops
The level dreary waste; and coppice woods,
Diminished of their height, like bushes seem.
With stooping heads, turned from the storm, the flocks
Onward still urged by man and dog, escape
The smothering drift; while, skulking at aside,
Is seen the fox, with close down-folded tail,
Watching his time to seize a straggling prey;
Or, from some lofty crag, he ominous howls,
And makes approaching night more dismal fall.

During this month, the increasing influence of the sun is scarcely

felt, till we approach the end, then hoping, watch from day to day
the lengthened minutes as they pass, to usher in Spring’s holy
charms.
 WIT AND BEAUTY.
———
BY AGNES L. GORDON.
———

It chanced upon a pleasant day,

In charming summer weather,
That Wit and Beauty sallied forth
To take a stroll together.

And as they idly roamed along,

On various themes conversing,
Young Beauty, somewhat vain, began
Her wondrous powers rehearsing.

And much she dwelt upon the charms

Her outward form adorning,
And seemed to feel herself supreme,
All other merit scorning.

This roused the ire of sparkling Wit,

Who keenly thus retorted:
“Your claim, though easily advanced,
Requires to be supported.

“Mark yon bright bird that wings his flight

Athwart the sunny skies,
Let each on him display our skill,
To catch him as he flies.
“Your chance is first, for well I know,
And own the pleasant duty,
That Wit in every age must yield
Due precedence to Beauty!”

Young Beauty smiled, and charmed the bird

With softened strains alluring,
And bound him with a silken chain,
More brilliant than enduring.

She placed the captive in a net,

Entwined of many flowers,
And with a merry, mocking smile,
Bade Wit now try his powers.

Then from his feathered quiver Wit

A silver arrow drew,
With perfect and unerring aim
He pierced the net-work through.

The bird released, on eager wing

Soared upward to the skies;
A second arrow reached his breast —
He fell—no more to rise!

Beauty looked sore dismayed, to see

Her snare thus incomplete.
When gallant Wit the trophy raised,
And laid it at her feet.

“Could we but journey hand in hand,”

He said to Beauty, smiling,
“No prey could e’er escape my shaft,
Who saw your charms beguiling.
“But since the stern decrees of fate
Our union thus opposes,
And you so oft my arrows blunt,
Beneath a weight of roses;

“Remember, Beauty’s charms will fade,

Despite each fond endeavor,
And strong, well tempered shafts of wit
Her chains will often sever.”
 PATRICK O’BRIEN.
A TALE OF HUMBLE LIFE.

———
BY H. HASTINGS WELD.
———

The father of Ellen O’Brien was a small farmer, whose situation

when the child began to think at all, seemed to her the realization of
all that is happy, and all that is cheerful in this world. Children do
think very early; much earlier than their elders suspect. But happily
for them they are easily contented. They look at the bright side, and
unconscious of the superior advantages, and the greater comforts of
others, have no temptation to discontented comparisons, and no
motive for uneasy envy.
Ellen’s earliest memory of marked and positive happiness—that is
to say, of an incident which conferred particular pleasure, was
connected with a child—a very small child. She remembered how her
father told her to “make a lap, now,” and placed the wee thing upon
the knees which she prepared with much ado to receive it. She was
told that this was her little brother, her own little brother; and she
hugged it in troubled happiness, almost afraid to touch, lest she
should hurt it. She gazed upon it with that undefined feeling of
mingled awe and pleasure with which little children regard less
children. She looked at its fragile hands and wondered, if she took
them in hers, whether they would fade or drop to pieces, like the
delicate blossoms which she had often killed with kindness. And
when it cried—oh, but she was astonished! That such a little thing
should be so ungrateful while she coddled and cared for it, and
nursed it ever so tenderly, was more than she could well endure.
She thought it well deserved, and ought to have a whipping, only
that a whipping might hurt it—and that she would not consent to.
 It was, however, not a great while before a safe acquaintance
grew up between the new comer and Ellen. He was called Patrick,
after his father, and his father’s father before him. Ellen was three
years his senior. That difference in their ages would have been a
wonder; only that it was explainable. Another little Patrick, his
predecessor, was “called home,” as his father said, “before he had
scarce a taste of the world at all.” And Ellen, from hearing so often
of the other little Patrick, and from her indistinct memory of a baby
that she saw one day, as if in a dream, and did not see any more,
learned to think of infants as of little things that would die if they
were not carefully watched. And this Patrick she was resolved should
not slip away for want of attention from his sister; therefore she
nursed him as carefully as if that had been her sole vocation.
The wonder about babies grew less as Ellen grew older. At first,
in her childish little heart, she thought every little baby must be a
little Patrick, and that no new one could come while there was
another about. But familiarity destroys marvels. She found there
could be little Phelims and Terrences as well as Patricks, Bridgets
and Kathleens as well as Ellens. Child after child lifted its clamorous
voice for food and nursing in Patrick O’Brien’s cottage, until at last
when he was asked respecting his children, he was fain to count
them upon his fingers. And he always began with Ellen and his
thumb—Paddy came next, and the formula was—“There’s Ellen, then
little Paddy that was called early, then Paddy that is now—sure Ellen
and Paddy are the thumb and forefinger to us. What would the
mother do without them, at all?”
Ellen grew to a fine, stout girl, with a cheerful open face when
you spoke to her—but there was a shade of care and thought over it
when in repose, which you may often see in the oldest daughter of a
poor man. She moved and acted as if while the tribe who had
exhausted the family names of the O’Briens were born children to
her mother, she was born before them for a deputy mother to them
all. Legs and arms were all over the cottage, in all sorts of places
where they shouldn’t be, and she jerked them out of harm’s way,
with a half-petulant dexterity which was pleasant to observe. Tow-
heads and shock-heads popped up continually, and she pushed them
aside with a “there now, wont you be aisy!” which was musical, with
a very little discord. And there was an easy and natural carelessness
of authority and half rebellion in obedience, which was truly puzzling
to strangers, but which gave no discomposure to Ellen or to her
mother. Indeed, Mrs. O’Brien sat, the centre of her offspring, with
the most contented air in the world, plying her knitting needles with
easy assiduity, and dismissing child after child from her arms, as
they severally grew out of her immediate province and into Ellen’s.
Or she bustled, if there was bustling to do, with perfect indifference,
it might seem, to one who did not know her, as to whether there
were children in the house or not.
But sometimes her interference became necessary as a measure
of last appeal, and she came down on them with hearty whacks
which were invariably poulticed with a word or two, half scolding and
half good-natured wit. The children were thus reconciled to the
propriety and necessity of certain summary inflictions, which at the
same time they took care to avoid, when it could be done without
too much trouble. Often there were voices heard in a higher key
than is considered proper in a drawing-room, and sometimes there
was a debouchment of children out at the door, and a consequent
squealing of little pigs, and fluttering of chickens before it; which
showed the mother’s activity at ejection. But no drawing-room ever
sheltered more gentle hearts, and no mother of high degree ever
followed a scolding with more patience than Mrs. O’Brien did. There
was no malice in her, and a half-laugh stood ever in her eye, as she
looked out at the door on the living miscellanies she had put in
motion, and said—“Sure you can’t turn a hand, or step any place at
all, for pigs, chickens and childer!”
There is often more room in the heart than in the house. The
O’Briens began to feel themselves crowded—or rather to feel the
inconvenience of too many sitters for their stools, without knowing
precisely—or rather without permitting themselves to acknowledge
what caused their discomfort. There were too many mouths for the
potatoes, as Patrick senior and his wife were at last compelled to
admit in their matrimonial committee of ways and means, and the
question now became, how could they diminish the one, or increase
the other. The lesser fry were out of the question. Nothing could be
done in the way of removing them; nor did the thought occur to
father or mother, who loved the children with true Irish hearts; that
the smaller children were in the way, or that any of the little ones
could possibly be spared, if the lord-lieutenant himself wanted a
baby. So they began canvassing at the other end of the long list.
“There was Ellen,” said the father, doubtfully.
“Ellen! Sure you’ll not be putting her away, and nobody to mind
the childer? What is the wages, I’d like to know, would make her
place good to us?”
And Ellen, it was decided, was a fixture.
“There is Paddy,” said the mother with some hesitation. “Sure
he’s a broth of a boy, and it is time he should do for himself—it is.
It’s little in life he’s good for here, anyway.”
The father did not think so. Many were the little “turns” that
Paddy cheerfully undertook, but all of them could not in conscience
be made to appear to amount to an indispensable service, or any
thing like it.
“Look at him now?” said the mother. And they looked at Pat,
whose all good-natured face, unconscious that it was the subject of
observation, bloomed like a tall flower amid the lesser O’Briens who
clustered about him.
“Sure there’s a tribe of them!” said O’Brien.
“But look at Paddy! He’s the moral of yourself at his age, Patrick;
with the same niver-a-thought, lazy look!”
It was questionable whether the wife’s affectionate reminiscence
was a compliment or not; and an expression of sad humor, between
a smile and a scowl, passed over O’Brien’s face, as he regarded his
elder son, the heir to his personal beauties and accomplishments—
and to his cast off clothes. It was of little use the latter were, for the
father usually exacted so much of them, that when they descended
to the son, sad make shifts were necessary to keep up in them any
show of integrity, however superficial. And the stitches which were
hurriedly taken between whiles, by his mother, had a comprehensive
character which brought distant parts of the garments into a
proximity very far from their original intention. The difference in size
between father and son permitted a latitude in this respect, and the
gathering together of the fabric produced an appearance more
picturesque than elegant. As to the extra length of the garments
that soon corrected itself, and Paddy junior’s ankles presented a ring
of ragged fringe; or a couple of well-developed calves protruded in
easy indifference. Indeed he was a broth of a boy, good natured and
“bidable,” as he was ragged and careless. It was time that his good
properties should be made available—and that some of the other
young ones should have a chance at their father’s wardrobe.

——
 CHAPTER II.
It was a sad thing to part with Paddy. But necessity knows no
law, and he was apprenticed to a farmer with more land and fewer
children than Patrick O’Brien. And it was no less sore to Paddy to
leave the homestead, than for his brothers and sisters and father
and mother to give up the “moral of his father.” Those whose hearts
are not united by a community in privation, and whose easy lives
present no exigencies in which they are compelled to feel with and
for each other, can separate without tears, and be re-united without
emotion. But the few miles of distance which were now to be placed
between little Paddy and the cot where he was born, seemed to him
almost an unbounded desert; and the going away from home,
though for so small a journey, was equivalent to banishment. He
took a sorrowful review of all the familiar objects which had been his
companions from his birth. There was not a scratch on the cabin
walls that did not seem to him as a brother; not a mud-hole around
the premises that was not as an old familiar friend. But he manfully
tore himself from all; and it was with no little sensation of
independence that he felt that henceforth he was really to earn his
own living, and to eat bread which should not diminish the
breakfasts of the rest. There were other circumstances too, as yet
undeveloped, which aided him in becoming reconciled. The inmates
of the new home were not strange to little Paddy, and one of them,
in especial, he had a childish weakness and fondness for. It is not
our intention to say that Paddy and little Norah knew any thing
about what boarding-school misses call undying affection; for such
nonsense was beyond their years, and schools were above their
opportunities. But leave we Paddy to establish himself in his new
home, while we return to the O’Briens.
Sorrow a bit of difference they soon found, did Paddy’s absence
make in the consumption of food. The potatoes were as extensively
devoured as ever, and little Paddy’s hand-turns were much missed.
His bright face gone left a blank which nothing seemed to fill;
though Mrs. O’Brien, blessings on her, as far as enumeration went,
soon made up the same tale that there was before Paddy’s
extradition. There was a half thought in the father’s mind of
christening the new comer Paddy also, since the removal of his
favorite boy was like death to him; and he really began to feel as if
names would run short if the wearers were not duplicated. This
notion, however, was over-ruled by the bright face of Pat himself,
who came at the first opportunity to bid the new brother good-
morning.
“Which of the childer is that wid you, Paddy?” said his mother,
who had removed with her knitting to the bed in the dark corner.
“Sure it’s none of our childer at all,” said Paddy, while Norah
blushed for the first time in her life, and both had the first glimpse of
a new revelation. “It’s only the master’s Norah. I thought may be,
the walk would be lonely.”
Mrs. O’Brien looked on the consequences of her own fear of
loneliness—consequences which had multiplied around her, till an
hour’s solitude, asleep or awake, had become one of the never-to-
return joys which the song sings of. She had a prophetic dream of a
similar destiny for Paddy and Norah, but said nothing to put
precocious notions into children’s heads. Ellen did not half like her
brother’s bringing a stranger home with him—and she would have
let Norah perceive her displeasure, but her heart was too kind to do
any body a willing disservice. Norah was soon put at ease—almost.
But the double visit was not repeated till long afterward. Meanwhile
Norah and Paddy were “set to thinking.” That visit, made in the
innocence of their hearts robbed those hearts of a portion of that
innocence. Before, they had been as a new brother and sister—now
as they grew in years constraint increased between them. At last,
resolved upon what he called a better understanding, Paddy forced
Norah to confess in words what he might easily have taken for
granted. And they pledged themselves, young as they were, to a life
of privation, and the same chance of more mouths than food, which
had been Paddy’s own idea of a household ever since he could
remember—his experience in the new home excepted.
 Paddy went home one evening without Norah, fully resolved to
divulge what he had determined on, in set words—a labor he might
have saved himself, for it was all guessed long before. His time was
out now in a few months, and he had resolved, as soon as one
bondage was concluded to enter into another. In the years that he
had been away, he had visited home too often to be surprised at the
changes which had taken place. Ellen looked old—she seemed the
mother of her brothers and sisters, for care fast brings the marks of
years. And the mother, tall, gaunt and thin, looked as if she might
have been the grand-parent of the children around her. Patrick
senior was better saved, but time showed its marks on him too; and
those not light ones. He was more peevish than formerly; he
retained the same black pipe longer in service, and kept it, too, in
use more constantly, for there was scarce an hour of the day when
its fragrance was not issuing. And as strong tobacco is too apt to
require strong accompaniments, we are compelled to acknowledge
that Patrick O’Brien was contracting a taste for less harmless
potations than buttermilk.
Poor and content is rich. Poor and discontented is poor indeed.
Ellen felt the infection of unhappiness, and the very children seemed
to have grown miserable. Squalor and negligence had marked the
whole household, and Paddy had learned to make his visits
unpleasant performances of duty, instead of the hilarious occasions
that they once were. It was no wonder that he preferred a quiet
evening in his second home, where he could sit and watch Norah’s
busy fingers, rather than a visit to his own father’s house; for there
cracked and dissonant voices jarred harshly, children cried, and the
welcome which he once met had changed to the utterance of mutual
complaints, and perhaps to unsuspended jarrings among those
whom he loved.
There seemed a spell on the place. Ellen said—“Sure there’s no
luck here any more.” And a neighbor, who had a son over sea, put a
new thought in her head. Ellen was often desired to act as
amanuensis to answer his letters. If her epistles were not clerkly
they were written as dictated, and it may be shrewdly suspected
that the person to whom they were written liked them none the less,
that he detected the handwriting, though they were signed, “your
affectionate mother.” Such a paradise as American letters revealed to
her, could not fail to make her own discomforts worse by contrast.
But the paradise was to her for a long time a thing unhoped for,
unthought of. At last a new resolution occurred to her.
“Sure, mother,” she said one day, “we’d better be in Ameriky.”
The mother smiled at the impossibility. But Ellen had set her
heart on it. She was the prop of the house—the only one in it,
indeed, who had any strength or determination left. Need we say
she carried her point? She reasoned father and mother into the
desirableness of the change, and they could but acknowledge that
any thing would be preferable to their present situation. The
correspondence to which she had access furnished her with
arguments, and the will once found for the enterprise, the way
presented no longer insuperable obstacles. All had been discussed,
and the journey was fully determined upon, when Paddy reached the
cottage with his plans in his head—selfish plans, Ellen afterward said
they were.
“Sure,” cried she as he entered, “here’s Patrick, too, will go with
us.”
“To be sure I will—where?” answered Paddy, delighted once more
to find his home cheerful.
“To Ameriky, Patrick,” said his father, taking the pipe from his
mouth to watch his son’s face. The son looked sad, astonished, and
bewildered. It was all new to him, and he could make no reply, save
to repeat —
“A-mer-iky!”
“To be sure,” said Ellen. “What’ll we wait here for, doing no good
at all? There’s Phelim may be president, and Mike a djuke, and
Terrence a parliament man, and Bridget may marry a lord, and—”
“And Ellen?” inquired Patrick, with a quizzical look, which
contrasted curiously with his wo-begone expression.
“Sure the best of the land will be hers,” said her mother. “Hasn’t
she been the born slave of the whole of ye’s? She didn’t go away
from her mother’s side, not she, for betther board and keeping!”
“Mother!” expostulated Paddy.
 “More she didn’t,” continued the mother, vexed at her son’s cool
reception of their good news as she deemed it. “She didn’t find new
young mates, and forget the mother that bore her!”
“Mother!” said Patrick, “ye sent me away, ye know ye did. Sure
I’d not gone to the Queen’s palace asself, but ye sent me away, so
you did.”
“Thrue for you, Patrick!” said Ellen, breaking in to keep the
peace. “Thrue for you; and more be token of that we’ll welcome you
back again. Your service is up, come Easter, and then we’ll all cross
the wide sea together!”
Poor Patrick! All the various modes in which he had conned over
his intended communication were put to flight in a moment. This
was no time to speak of any such proposals—for with half an eye to
such a contingency, Patrick knew his mother had spoken. Never had
the way back seemed so long to Patrick as it did that night. He had
committed himself by no engagement to go with his family to the
new land over sea; but he saw that they all chose to take his going
for granted. The children supposed it of course, thinking of nothing
else; and the elders deemed it the best way to admit no question.
Norah listened in vain that night for Paddy’s cheerful whistle as he
neared the house. She wondered, and fell asleep. But there was no
sleep for Patrick.
Norah was too diffident to ask Patrick how he sped the next day
—but didn’t she burn to know! At length, and with a very sad face,
he told her all except his mother’s covert and undeserved
reproaches. Norah listened with a tear in her eye, for she could not
dissemble. She did not interrupt him, and when he ceased, she said:
“Sure you’ll go with them, Patrick, dear!”
“Sure I’ll do no such thing, Norah, darling!” And he hugged her to
his heart with a suddenness which she could not foresee, and an
energy she could not resist, had she wished it.

——
 CHAPTER III.
Norah was satisfied. There is no denying that. But how was
Paddy to satisfy his father and mother and Ellen? How was he to
explain to the little O’Briens that they were going to America and
brother Patrick was to remain behind? Never was a worse day’s work
done for Norah’s father than Patrick’s that day, we are very sure.
Never was a poor fellow so dissatisfied with himself. A few days
before, all seemed to promise to falsify the adage that the course of
true love never did run smooth. And now never was stream so
ruffled.
“ ’Tis but a word and all’s over,” he said to himself, as he turned
his head homeward the next evening, prepared to face the worst.
But his fears whispered that there would be more than one word or
two, and those high ones; and by the time he had reached his
father’s door, all his courage was gone again. When he entered he
found the good wife there who had the son over sea. She was fully
installed as one of the council, since she also had resolved upon
crossing the water. All the various items and charges of the voyage
were calculated, and Paddy was counted as one of the party—not
without lamentations, which he arrived in season to hear, that he
had grown too tall to be counted as one of the “childher.”
It was a desperate case, and there was nothing for it but
desperate courage. “Mother,” said Patrick, “and father, and Ellen, and
you childher, you’ve pushed the thing so far that you drive me to tell
you all, once and forever, that I cannot go!”
Patrick senior let his pipe fall with astonishment. The mother
turned pale with sorrow and displeasure. Ellen arose, and going to
Patrick’s side—he had not taken a seat—drew him out of doors. They
walked a few steps from the house in silence, and reaching a tree
paused there. Patrick folded his arms, and leaning against it, bowed
his head and stood in troubled silence. Ellen placed her hands upon
his, and never a word was spoken till, when she felt her brother’s
hot tears fall upon her hand, she cried:
 “Sure, Paddy, you are not going to leave us now!” And she fell
upon his neck and clung to him with the evidences of earnest and
frantic affection.
“Indeed, indeed, Ellen darling, it is you that leave me. It is you
that go away from the land where God has been good to us, to seek
a new home and new friends over sea. I cannot go there with you,
Ellen; indeed I can’t.”
“And what will this land be to you, Paddy dear, but a land of
strangers—no mother, no father, no sister nor brother in it? Where’ll
be the hearth side that you’ll find a home at? Come, brother, with
the rest of us, where father will lift up his head again and mother be
happy!”
“Amen to their happiness, Ellen, and yours too. Go your ways
without me. Sure I’ve given my word on it, and must tarry to take
care of my own home, sister dear.”
“Is it that you mean!” cried Ellen, starting back indignant. “And
shall we plough the seas while you cling to her apron-string! Will you
be as easy in your undutiful bed, while the mother that bore you is
tossed on the ocean, and the sister that toiled for you is down, down
in the deep sea, maybe? Oh, Patrick! by the days of your wee, wee
childhood, come along with us now. Is it thus, selfish as you are,
that you lose all natural affection? Didn’t the clargy tell us, only
Sunday was a week, to honor father and mother?”
“Thrue for you, Ellen. But who would be our father and mother, if
our father had not left his father and mother to clave to his wife?
Oh, go along with you, Ellen, to break my heart so, and my word of
words given to Norah that I will stay with her and cherish her—for
better for worse!”
Ellen said no more. Patrick did not re-enter the house, but
proceeded homeward—to the place which was now doubly home to
him, since the home of his childhood was about to be broken up. But
the efforts of his mother to change his determination did not cease,
and many a half-altercation he had with his family in his now
frequent visits. Still, though strongly tempted to yield, he never
would give full consent, and the sight of Norah reassured him in his
resistance. The few weeks that remained between the fixing upon
the purpose of emigration and the day of departure, were a long,
long time to Patrick, and a season of sad trouble; and he could not
speak with freedom to any of his distress. Norah was high-spirited,
and the bare suspicion of the manner in which her name was
bandied, and her love for Patrick all but cursed at the house of his
father, would have led her to forbid Patrick ever to speak on the
subject to her again. With slow reluctance the family gave way to
Patrick’s resolute determination, and ceasing unkind reproaches,
loaded him with tenderness, that much more affected his
determined spirit. The day of parting came at last, and Norah herself
proposed that she should accompany her betrothed to take leave of
his kindred. It was a dangerous thing for him to suffer, Patrick knew;
but how could he avoid it? And what would he have thought of her,
too, had she not proposed it?
Unmixed and bitter was the grief with which Patrick’s kindred
took leave of him to commence their long journey. They sorrowed as
persons who should see his face no more; and without extravagance
or hyperbole, the passion of grief which they felt and exhibited may
be termed heart-rending. Scarce a word did they give to Norah. The
mother looked on her almost with aversion, and the father scarce
heeded her presence at all. Ellen only said:
“Cherish him, Norah—love him, for you see what he foregoes for
you. God forgive him if he is wrong, and me if he is right.”

——
 CHAPTER IV.
They were gone. Norah thought it was but natural, at first, that
Patrick should be sad, for the interview which she had witnessed
made her unhappy too. But she was not well pleased that his gloom
continued. Weeks and months passed, and still Patrick had not
resumed his former light-heartedness. Nor did there appear any
indication of its return to him. The wedding day, to which he once
looked forward with continual expectation, and of which, at one
time, he daily spoke, he now seemed to dread and scarcely
mentioned. And when he did speak of it, it was with a forced
appearance of interest. Norah was offended at his coldness, and as
he did not press, as formerly, a positive and early date, you may be
sure that she did not increase in impatience for the nuptials to which
Patrick appeared to be growing daily more indifferent. He thought
her ungrateful that she did not duly estimate the sacrifice he had
made for her; and she considered him weak-minded that he had
over-estimated his affection for her, and undervalued his own kin,
and was now repenting. Patrick was indeed more miserable than he
had ever been in his life before. Not a word had he heard from his
connections in many long months; and what Ellen said to him under
the tree before his father’s door, now haunted him—“Shall we plough
the seas while you cling to her apron-strings? Will you be easy in
your bed, when the mother that loves you is tossed on the sea, and
the sister that toiled for you is drowned?” By day these words
haunted him, and by night his mother and sister rose out of the sea
to come to his bedside. And truly, when he waked in a cold
perspiration of terror from these visions, it was hard to persuade him
that they were not true; and that the sea had not verily given up its
dead to reproach him.
“Norah, dear,” he said at length one evening, as they sat alone,
“my heart is broke, so it is.”
She answered with a look in which deep sorrow mingled with all
her old affection. Nor did she resist, when he drew her to his side,
and placed her head against his bosom. He felt that he could not say
what he must when her eyes met his. So she nestled lovingly to him
while he sat long in silence. She guessed, but would not ask, what
he wished to say, and at length he continued:
“Every morning when I wake it is to hear what they said to me,
when I wouldn’t go with them. And every night when I lie down,
sure the clatter of that leave-taking drives sleep away. And when the
eyes shut for very weariness, and I have cried myself into a troubled
slumber, it is no rest. Sometimes my mother comes to me, Norah,
and sometimes my sister. I know that they come from the deep,
deep sea, for they are all dripping wet. Never a word do they say
with their mouths, but their eyes, Norah. God save us, what was
that?”
Norah had caught his contagious horror, and clung closer to him,
as they both shivered with terror. It was many minutes before
Patrick could resume his narrative, but after a trembling pause he
proceeded:
“They come to me, Norah, and I know it’s them. When I wake,
don’t I feel the cold water of the sea chilling my temples? The saints
save us, Norah, from such visiters to our bridal bed! You think me
changed and that my heart is turned, and my manner is unkind—
but, Norah dear, what will I do, what can I do?”
“It’s all your sick fancy, Patrick—and maybe your conscience is
not easy,” said Norah, shaking off the spectral influence of Paddy’s
dreams. “It’s all your own notion, Paddy dear. Your mother and all of
them are well and happy—barring that they feel the loss of you as
much as you do their absence. And I know their consciences are not
easy, Patrick, for the hard words they said to you must leave a deep
wound in their own hearts. You must go to them, Patrick.”
“What, Norah, and leave you!”
“And why not? Sure, Paddy dear, you’re not worth a body’s
having now, and that’s the truth. You are not the same lad that you
were at all, and what will I do with such a man? It’s a long lane that
has no turn, and all will come right by and by.”
“Norah!”
“Well!”
 “Wouldn’t you go with me too?”
“Sure I thought you’d be asking that, Patrick. Ellen said you were
selfish—and wasn’t it the truth she said! Will you change the load
from your heart to mine? Haven’t I a father and mother, and sisters
too? Will I give them up and go away, because you can’t give yours
up? It isn’t reason, Patrick.”
In vain did our hero strive to alter Norah’s determination. Her
arguments were unanswerable, and he was fain to submit. After
many days’ irresolution he resolved, but still not without doubts and
misgivings, to follow his parents to America. The resolution was
taken, the spectral appearances which had annoyed him ceased. He
was half-tempted to retreat from his purpose, but Norah gave him
no encouragement, and his nocturnal visiters threatened to renew
their visits; so that he was fain to adhere to his resolve, and take a
steerage passage to the great entre-pot of the New World—New
York.
Great was his amazement upon arriving there to find that it was
a place so large, and one of many large places; and that to inquire
for his family there was of as little utility as it would be to ask for his
master’s dog in Dublin. It was a sad trial to Patrick that he had come
to a strange land, he verily believed, to no purpose. But it was
necessary for him to do, or starve, and finding employment he
worked, with a heavy heart it is true, but not without hope. Chance
—or we should better say Providence—directed him to a priest, to
whom he related his difficult position and almost extinguished
hopes. The kind father was struck with his tale, and, after a
moment’s pondering referred to his record of priestly acts, and sure
enough, there he found the name of Ellen O’Brien—O’Brien no
longer!
“Mighty easy it was then, for her to come over,” shouted Pat,
forgetting his Reverence. Fine talk hers to me about selfishness, and
drowning, and all that. Very pleasant it was, no doubt of it, to write
and read them long letters. But it has given me the first trace of
them anyhow, and that’s something.
With this clue the persevering young Irishman was not long in
tracing the party to their late stopping-place—late, for they were
there no longer. He followed to Albany, and there again lost the
scent; for a party of poor emigrants are not so easily followed. Again
he heard of them in Buffalo; away, it seemed to him, at the verge of
the world; and again he pursued.
“Sure he would find them now,” he said, “if it was only to have a
fly at that traitor, Ellen—God bless her!”
In Buffalo he was once more disappointed, for from Buffalo they
had flitted also. “It’s the Wandering Jew Ellen has married, no
doubt,” he said, “to lead me this dance, and she to rate me so. Wait
till I find them once more.”
Time would be unprofitably spent in tracing all poor Patrick’s
journeyings, including many an excursion from the main routes.
Wherever the sinews of his countrymen were busy upon public
works and other enterprises, in which the labor of the sturdy
Hibernian is found so valuable, there Patrick wandered—and patient
perseverance at last was rewarded. He had traced out an impromptu
village on a rail-road truck, where the delvers had put up cabins
which they would sorrow to leave. As he looked curiously through
the little settlement, he was startled to hear his own name shouted,
and in a moment more one of his many brothers had him by the
neck, with a hug as stifling as if he had taken lessons in the new
country of one of those undisputed natives—the black bear.
Patrick had much ado to stop his brother’s clamor, that he might
surprise the others. And he was astonished moreover to find little
Phelim, for he it was, with a Sunday face on in the middle of the
week. This mystery was solved when they reached the cabin; for
there was a gathering in honor of the first Patrick of the new
generation, who had that day, during the priest’s visit in his round on
the works, been first empowered to answer to his name like a
Christian.
“It’s this you were up to, is it?” shouted Patrick, bursting upon
them. “I thought it wasn’t entirely to make Phelim a president, and
Michael a djuke, that you come over!”
Tears, shouts of laughter, frolic, pathos, poetry, and prose most
unadorned, made up the delightful melange at that unexpected
meeting.
——
Welcome to our website – the perfect destination for book lovers and
knowledge seekers. We believe that every book holds a new world,
offering opportunities for learning, discovery, and personal growth.
That’s why we are dedicated to bringing you a diverse collection of
books, ranging from classic literature and specialized publications to
self-development guides and children's books.

More than just a book-buying platform, we strive to be a bridge

connecting you with timeless cultural and intellectual values. With an
elegant, user-friendly interface and a smart search system, you can
quickly find the books that best suit your interests. Additionally,
our special promotions and home delivery services help you save time
and fully enjoy the joy of reading.

Join us on a journey of knowledge exploration, passion nurturing, and

personal growth every day!

ebookbell.com