University of Virginia Library

THE IRISH HEART.
A True Story.

It was a pleasant sight to look on James and Nora
in their carly childhood; their cheeks were so rosy,
their hair so sunny, and their clear blue eyes so mild
and innocent. They were the youngest of a cabin-full
of children; and though they did now and then
get a cuff from the elder ones, with the hasty words,
“Get out of the way, you spalpeen,” they were the
pets and playmates of them all. Their love for each
other was extreme; and though James, early in his
boyhood, evinced the Irish predilection for giving
knocks, he was never known to raise his hand against
his little sister. When she could first toddle about, it
was his delight to gather the Maygowans that grew
about the well, and put them in Nora's curly hair;
and then he would sit before her, with his little hands
resting on his knees, contemplating her with the greatest
satisfaction. When they were older, they might
be seen weeding the “pathies”[1] side by side, or hand
in hand gathering berries among the hawthorn bushes.
The greatest difference between them seemed to
be, that James was all fun and frolic, while Nora was
ever serious and earnest.

When the young maiden was milking the cows, her

soft low voice might usually be heard, warbling some
of the mournful melodies of Ireland. But plaintive
tones were rarely heard from James. He came home
from his daily labour whistling like a black-bird,
mocking the cuckoo, or singing, at the top of his clear
ringing voice, the merry jingle of St. Patrick's Day in
the Morning, or the facetious air of Paudeen O'Rafferty.
At dancing, too, he excelled all the lads of the
neighbourhood. He could dance Irish jigs, three-part
reel, four-part reel, or rowly-powly, to the tune of
The Dusty Miller, or The Rakes of Bally-shanny,
with such a quick ear for the music, that all the lassies
declared they could “see the tune upon his feet.”
He was a comely lad, too, and at weddings and
Christmas carousals, none of the rustic dandies looked
more genteel than he, with his buff-coloured vest, his
knot of ribbons at each knee, and his caubeen,[2] set
jauntily on one side of his head. Being good-natured
and mirthful, he was a great favourite at wakes
and dances, and festivities of all sorts; and he might
have been in danger of becoming dissipated, had it
not been for the happy consciousness of belonging to
an honest industrious family, and being the pride and
darling of Nora's heart.

Notwithstanding the natural gayety of his disposition,
he had a spirit of enterprise, and a love of earning
money. This tendency led him early to think of
emigrating to America, the Eldorado of Irish imagination.
Nora resisted the first suggestion with many
tears. But James drew fine pictures of a farm of his
own in the new country, and cows and horses, and a

pleasant jaunting car; and in the farm-house and the
jaunting car, Nora was ever by his side; for with the
very first guineas that crossed his hand, sure he would
send for her. The affectionate sister, accustomed to
sympathise with all his plans, soon began to help him
to build his castles in America; and every penny that
she could earn at her spinning-wheel was laid away
for passage money. But when the time actually arrived
for him to go to Dublin, it was a day of sorrow.
All the married sisters, with their little ones, and
neighbours from far and near, came to bid him farewell,
and give their parting blessing. The good
mother was busy to the last, storing away some little
comfort in his sea-box. Nora, with the big tears in
her eyes, repeated, for the thousandth time, “And
Jimmy, mavourneen,[3] if you grow grand there in the
new country, you'll not be after forgetting me? You
will send for your own Nora soon?”

“Forget you!” exclaimed James, while he pressed
her warmly to his bosom: “When the blessed sun
forgets to rise over the green earth, maybe I'll forget
you, mavourneen dheelish.”[4]

Amid oft repeated words of love and blessing, he
parted from them. Their mutual sorrow was a little
softened by distant visions of a final reunion of them
all in America. But there was a fearful uncertainty
about this. The big sea might swallow him up, he
might sicken and die among strangers, or bad examples
might lead him into evil paths worse than death.

To this last suggestion, made by an elder sister,
Nora replied with indignant earnestness. “Led into

evil coorses, indade!” she exclaimed; “Shame be on
you for spaking that same! and he the dacentest and
best behaved boy in all the county Longford. You
don't know the heart of him, as I do, or you'd never
be after spaking of him in that fashion. It's a shame
on you, and indade it is. But och, wurrah dheelish,[5]
let him not sicken and die there in the strange country,
and the sister not there to do for him!” And,
overcome by the picture her own imagination had
drawn, she burst into a passionate flood of tears.

In a few weeks, came a brief letter from James,
written on board the ship in which he sailed from Dublin.
About seven months later, came a letter, dated
New York, saying he had obtained work at good
wages, and, by God's blessing, should soon be enabled
to send for his dear sister. He added a hint that one
of these days, when he had a house of his own, perhaps
the father and mother would be after coming
over. Proud were they in the Irish cabin, when this
letter was read aloud to all who came to inquire after
the young emigrant. All his old cronies answered,
“Throth, and he'd do well anywhere. He was always
a dacent, clane, spirited boy, as there was widin
a great ways of him. Divil a man in the ten parishes
could dance the Baltihorum jig wid him, any how.”

Time passed on, and no other letter came from
James. Month after month, poor Nora watched with
feverish anxiety to catch sight of her father when he
returned from the distant post-office; for he promised,
if he found a letter, to wave his hand high above his
head, as soon as he came to the top of the hill fronting

the house. But no letter came; and at last Nora
fully believed that her darling brother was dead.
After writing again and again, and receiving no answer,
she at last wrote to the son of a neighbour,
who had emigrated to America, and begged of him,
for the love of heaven, to ascertain whether James
was dead or alive, and send them word as soon as
possible. The Irishman to whom this urgent epistle
was addressed, was at work on a distant rail-road,
and had no fixed place of residence; and so it happened
that Nora received no answer to her anxious
inquiries, for more than a year and a half after they
were written. At last, there came a crumpled square
of soiled paper, containing these words:

Deep indeed was the grief in that honest family,
when these sad tidings were read. Poor Nora buried
her face in her hands, and sobbed aloud. The old

mother rocked violently to and fro, with her apron at
her eyes; and the father, though he tried hard to conceal
his emotion, could not restrain the big tears from
rolling down his weather-beaten face. “Och, wo is
the day,” said he, “that ever we let him go from us.
Such a dacent lad, and belonging to a family that
never did a dishonest action. And sure all hearts
were upon him, and we all so proud out of him.”

“Father,” said the weeping Nora, “I know the
heart of him better nor any of you does; and I know
he never had intintion to do anything that would bring
to the blush the mother that bore him, and the sister
that slept in his arms, when we were both weeny
things. I'll go to Ameriky, and find out all about it,
and write you word.”

“You go to Ameriky!” exclaimed her mother.
“Sure you're crazed with the big grief that's upon
you, coleen macree,[6] or you'd niver spake thim
words.”

“And wouldn't he follow me to the ends of the earth,
if the black trouble was on me?” replied Nora, with
passionate earnestness. “There was always kindness
in him for all human crathurs; but he loved me
better nor all the world. Never a one had a bad word
agin him, but nobody knew the heart of him as I did.
Proud was I out of him, and lonesome is my heart
widout him. And is it I will lave him alone wid
his trouble? Troth, not if there was ten oceans
atween us.”

This vehemence subsided after awhile, and they
talked more calmly of how they should hide their

disgrace from the neighbourhood. That their hearts
were sad they could not conceal. Day after day, their
frugal meals were removed almost untasted, and every
one stepped about silently, as after a funeral. The
very cows came slowly and disconsolately, as if they
heard grief in the voice of their young mistress, when
she called them to be milked. And the good old
mother no longer crooned at her spinning wheel the
song she had sung over the cradle of her darling boy.
Nora at first persisted in her plan of crossing the Atlantic;
but her father forbade it, and she said no more.
But her heart grew more and more impatient. She
spoke less and less of James, but she sighed heavily
at her work, and her eyes were often red with weeping.
At last, she resolved to depart unknown to any
one. She rose stealthily at midnight, tied up a small
bundle of clothing, placed a little bag of money in her
bosom, paused and gazed lovingly on her sleeping
parents, hastily brushed away the gathering tears, and
stept out into the moonlight. She stood for a few moments
and gazed on the old familiar hills and fields,
on the potato patch, where she and James had worked
together many a day, on the old well, by the side
of which the Maygowans grew, and on the clear
white cabin, where the dear old ones slept. She passed
into the little shed, that served as a stable for the
animals, and threw her arms about the donkey's neck,
and kissed the cow, that knew her voice as well as
her own mother did. She came forth weeping, and
gazed on the old homestead, as she would gaze on the
face of a dying friend. The clustering memories
were too much for her loving heart. Dropping on her
knees, she prayed, in agony of sorrow: “If it be a
sin to go away from the good old father and mother,
perhaps niver to see them agin, till the judgment day,
thou oh! Father in heaven, wilt forgive me; for thou
seest I can not lave him alone wid his great trouble.”

Then crossing herself, and looking toward the beloved
home of her childhood, she said, in a stifled
voice, “The Mother of Glory be wid ye, and bless
and keep ye all.”

Half blinded with tears, she wended her way over
the moonlighted hills, and when her favourite cow
called as usual for her milking pail, in the first blush
of the morning, she was already far on her way to
Dublin.

* * * * * * * *

And had James been criminal? In the eye of the
law he had been; but his sister was right, when she
said he had no intention to do a wicked thing. Not
long after his arrival in America, he was one day
walking along the street, in a respectable suit of
Sunday clothes, when a stranger came up, and entered
into conversation with him. After asking some
indifferent questions, he inquired what his coat cost.

“Sixteen dollars,” was the answer.

I will give you twenty for it,” said the stranger;
“for I am going away in a hurry, and have no time
to get one made.”

James was as unsuspecting as a child. He thought
this was an excellent opportunity to make four dollars,
to send to his darling sister; so he readily agreed to
the bargain.

“I want a watch, too,” said the stranger; “but

perhaps you would not be willing to sell yours for
ten dollars?”

James frankly confessed that it was two dollars
more than he gave for it, and very willingly consented
to the transfer. Some weeks after, when he attempted
to pass the money the stranger had given
him, he found, to his dismay, that it was counterfeit.
After brooding over his disappointment for some time,
he came to a conclusion at which better educated men
than himself have sometimes arrived. He thought to
himself—“It is hard for a poor man to lose so much,
by no fault of his own. Since it was put off upon
me, I will just put if off upon somebody else. Maybe
it will keep going the rounds, or somebody will
lose it that can better afford it than I can.”

It certainly was a wrong conclusion; but it was a
bewilderment of the reasoning powers in the mind of
an ignorant man, and did not involve wickedness of
intention. He passed the money, and was soon after
arrested for forgery. He told his story plainly; but,
as he admitted that he knew the money was counterfeit
when he passed it, the legal construction of his
crime was forgery in the second degree. He had
passed three bills, and had the penalty of the law
been enforced with its utmost rigour, he might have
been sentenced to the state-prison for fifteen years;
but appearances were so much in his favour, that the
court sentenced him but for five years.

Five years taken away from the young life of a
labouring man, spent in silent toil, in shame and sorrow
for a blighted reputation, was, indeed, a heavy
penalty for confused notions of right and wrong, con

cerning bits of paper, stamped with a nominal value.
But law, in its wisest and kindest administration, cannot
always make nice distinctions between thoughtless
errors and wilful crimes.

It is probable James never felt the degree of compunction,
that it is supposed every convict ought to
feel; for the idea was ever with him, that if he had
sinned against government, he did not mean to sin
against God. That he had disgraced himself, he
knew full well and felt keenly. The thoughts of
what Nora and his good mother would suffer, if they
could see him driven to hard labour with thieves and
murderers, tore his soul with anguish. He could not
bring his mind to write to them, or send them any tidings
of his fate. He thought it was better that they
should suppose him dead, than know of his disgrace.
Thus the weary months passed silently away. The
laugh of his eye and the bound of his step were gone.
Day by day he grew more disconsolate and stupid.

He had been in prison about four years, when one
of the keepers told him that a young woman had
come to visit him, and he had received permission to
see her. He followed silently, wondering who it
could be; and a moment after, he was locked in his
sister's arms. For some time, nothing but sobs were
audible. They looked mournfully in each other's faces;
then fell on each other's necks, and wept again.

“And so you know me, mavourneen?” said Nora,
at last, trying to smile through her tears.

“Know you!” he replied, folding her more closely
to his breast. “A cushla machree,[7] and wouldn't I

know your shadow on the wall, in the darkest cellar
they could put me in? But who came wid you, mavourneen?”

“Troth, and it was alone I come. I run away in
the night. I hope it wasn't wrong to lave the good
father and mother, when they had spoke agin my
coming. I wouldn't like to do any thing displasing
to God. But Jimmy, machree, my heart was breakin'
widout you; and I couldn't lave you alone wid your
great trouble. Sure it's long ago I would have been
wid you, if you had let us know of your misfortin.”

The poor fellow wept afresh at these assurances of
his sister's affection. When he was calmer, he told
her circumstantially how the great trouble had come
upon him.

“God be praised for the words you spake,” replied
Nora. “It will take a load off of hearts at home,
when they hear of the same. I always said there was
no sin in your heart; for who should know that better
nor me, who slept in the same cradle? A blessing be
wid you, mavourneen. The music's in my heart to
hear the sound of your voice agin. And proud will I
be out of you, as I used to be when all eyes, young
and old, brightened on you in warm old Ireland.”

“But Nora, dheelish, the disgrace is on me,” said
the young man, looking down. “They will say I
am a convict.”

“Sorra a fig I care for what they say,” replied the
warm-hearted girl. “Don't I know the heart that is
in you? Didn't I say there was no sin in your intintions,
though you was shut up in this bad place?
And if there had been—if the black murder had
been widin you, is it Nora would be after laving you

alone wid your sin and your shame? Troth, I would
weary the saints in heaven wid prayers, till they
made you a better man, for the sake of your sister's
love. But there was no sin in your heart; and proud
I am out of you, a suillish machree;[8] and bad luck to
the rogue that brought you into this trouble.”

The keeper reminded them that the time allowed
for their interview was nearly spent.

“You will come agin?” said James, imploringly.
“You will come to me agin, acushla machree?”

“I had to beg hard to see you once,” replied Nora.
“They said it was agin the rules. But when I told
them how I come alone across the big ocean to be wid
you in your trouble, because I knew the heart that
was in you, they said I might come in. It is a heavy
sorrow that we cannot spake together. But it will be
a comfort, mavourneen, to be where I can look on
these stone walls. The kind man here they call the
chaplain says I may stay wid his family; and sure
not an hour in the day but I will think of you, a villish. [9]
The same moon shines here, that used to
shine on us when we had our May dances on the
green, in dear old Ireland; and when they let you
get a glimpse of her bright face, you can think maybe
Nora is looking up at it, as she used to do when she
was your own weeny darlint, wid the shamrock and
gowan in her hair. I will work, and lay by money
for you; and when you come out of this bad place,
it's Nora will stand by you; and proud will I be out
of you, a suillish machree.”

The young man smiled as he had not smiled for

years. He kissed his sister tenderly, as he answered,
“Ah, Nora, mavourneen, it's yourself that was always
too good to me. God's blessing be wid you, acushla
machree. It will go hard wid me, but I will make
some return for such goodness.”

“And sure it's no goodness at all,” replied Nora.
“Is it yourself would be after laving me alone, and
I in the great trouble? Hut, tut, Jimmy, avick.
Sure it's nothing at all. Any body would do it.
You're as dacent and clever a lad as iver you was.
Sing that to your heart, mavourneen. It's Nora will
stand by you, all the world over.”

With a smile that she meant should be a brave one,
but with eyes streaming with tears, she bade her beloved
brother farewell. He embraced her with vehement
tenderness, and, with a deep sigh, returned to
his silent labour. But the weight was taken off his
heart, and his step was lighter; for

Nora remained with the kind-hearted chaplain, ever
watching the gloomy walls of Sing Sing. When
her brother's term expired, she was at the prison door
to welcome him, and lead him forth into the blessed
sunshine and free air. The chaplain received them
into his house, cheered and strengthened their hearts
by kind words and judicious counsel, and sent them
to the office of the Prison Association, No. 13 Pine-street,
New-York. As James brought certificates of
good conduct while in prison, the Association lent
him tools, to be paid for if he should ever be able to
do so, and recommended him to a worthy mechanic.

At this place he would have remained, had not his
employer needed a journeyman thoroughly versed in
his trade. It is the policy at Sing Sing not to allow
the prisoners to learn all branches of any business,
lest they should come into competition with mechanics
out of the prison. What James had been accustomed
to do, he did with great industry and expertness; but
he could not do all his employer required, and was
therefore kindly and honourably dismissed.

Had he been dishonest, he might have gone off with
the tools; but he went to the office of the Association,
to ask whether they were willing he should keep
them till he could obtain work elsewhere, and earn
enough to pay for them. They consented very cordially,
and told him to remember them as friends in
need, so long as he behaved well. His sister was
with him, like his shadow, and their earnest expressions
of gratitude were truly affecting.

Her good-natured honest countenance, and industrious
habits, attracted the attention of a thriving
young farmer, who succeeded in obtaining the treasure
of her warm and generous heart. She who made
so good a sister, can scarcely fail to be an excellent
wife. James continues to do well, and loves her with
superabounding love. The blessing of our Father be
with them! They are two of the kindest hearts, and
most transparent souls, among that reverent, loving,
confiding, and impulsive people, who, in their virtues
and their defects, deserve to be called the little children
of the nations.