The Corvallis gazette. [volume] (Corvallis, Or.) 1862-1899, 1881-03-04
Am Irish Romance.

/ can tell which now, but like to think it
is Hilda's portrait.
An Irish Romance.
When I arrived at Kilmurrey, one of
| those storms which come from the Allan
/ tic. and in an instant envelope these
islands in cloud of wind-driven mist,
made me seek refuge in cabin. It vas
o crowded, busy peasants home, and as
! I sat by the fire-the warmest seat being
given me with the invariable hospitality
| of these people, found abundant mate-
rial for observation and reflection. What
| ey er cleanliness was possible in q family
of eight occupying one huge room along
with two pigs was carefully maintained; !;
/ at least. the mother and children were
neatly and comfortably attired, the
hearth well swept, and the pigs were
/ confined to the limits assigned them. An
old woman was carding wool, child
rocking the cradle, and the mother spin
ming at large wheel. The chickens,
also driven in by the rain, one by one
hoped up ladder to their roosts among
the rafters, from which they watched
over their ruf1ed feathers the busy
family and the blazing hearth with SO
, much approval and satisfaction that I am
|
| tion, these were very tender ones indeed.
A dog sneaked in, and seeing stranger,
went out again. The dogs, which
are not numerous on the island, are of
the most miserable and condemned as
pect, and seem to feel their ignoble an
cestry, as they invariably jumped over a
wall or ran into some obscurity on the
approach of stranger. While drying
my dripping garments, I saw for the
I first time, seated in o corner, as if to
screen himself from observation, the fig
| ure of young man clad in white fan
| mel, the costume of the island. His face
was thin and sad, and of the same color
| as the garments he wore, and he gazed at
the fire with such detected and hope
less expression as lead me to infer that he
was the fated victim of some terrible dis
ease-consumption, perhaps-and was
feebly waiting through the long hours of
the day and night the death he knew to
be sure and near. spoke to him, striv-
ing in my pity to appear unconscious of
perceiving his misery. Without answer
ing he rose abruptly and left the cabin.
The looks of concern and inquietude in
the faces abou me told me of some un-
usual sorrow, which the mother, leaving
her spinning wheel. explained to
me in low voice. She told
me that the young man, her eldest
| SON, poor Owney, as she called him,
| had until a month before been the
most healthy and cheerful member of the
family; ready and prompt at work, and
! the Life of the household, when letter
came from America to neighboring FAM
| lily inc1osing money to pay the passage
thither of their eldest daughter. It ap-
peared that the young man had long en-
tertained a secret passion for this girl,
and when he heard that he probably
would never see her again, he declared
his love to ner, and besought her to re
main. So far from being unmindful of
his affection, she avowed her willingness
to marry him at once, if he would accom-
pany her to America Immediately after
ward. This was impossible; his own
family were unable to assist him, and
the few people who possess money on the
island would not lend it without security.
The practical damsel saw on the other
side of the Atlantic every prospect of inn
proving her material condition, and
doubted not that husbands were as plen-
tiful there as elsewhere; while, If she re-
manned, she knew the drudgery and
hopeless slavery that were the lot of all
around her would be hers also. There
fore she told her suitor if he could not
accompany her she would not listen
to his suit. When the young man
found his upbraidings useless, he gave
way to despair, and had not worked or
spoken since his cruel sentence had been
pronounced. Every day he grew thinner
and more wan, and he did not take
sufficient food to support life. All the
solicitude and tenderness of his mother
had not succeeded in arousing within
h, h. L.
ming down her cheeks she told me she
thought he had lost his reason forever.
Some weeks previously the school mas
ter had written for them to priest,
distant relative of the family, who lived
in Connemara; but they had received no
reply. and she supposed he had neither
help nor counsel to give. I pondered
for long while, as I sat by the fire,
upon what often proves to be the unfor-
tunate sincerity of men, and could not
refrain from deploring the no less fre-
quent levity of my own sex. In passing
through the village week afterward
stopped to say good-day to these kind
people, when I found the house scene
of hustle and confusion. My erewhile
love sick swain was, when I entered,
smaking himself a pair of pampootees and
as he said goodbye over dangerously
starcned collar, his lace glowed with
health and energy. The now cheerful
and happy mother informed me that
since my last visit they had received
letter from the priest in Connemara, en-
closing his blessing for her son, and the
money to pay his passage to America.
She had been very busy knitting him
stockings, and making him white fan
mel suit to be married in, and which
thereafter he would not again wear till
his arrival in New York so that he would
make decent appearance in the New
World as became the relative of a priest.
He was to be married to the object of. his
choice the next day, and they were to
start Immediately afterward upon their
long voyage. As I left the damsel.
whose months delay to prepare her out
fit had given such fortunate respite TO
her lover, thrust her head in the door.
and cafled upon Owney to be sure and
wear the blue stockings she had knitted
him to the chapel on the morrow; and
then. with her little retousse nose turned
up to- the sky. ran blushing away
Harper's Ma9azine.
There is nothing new in that mode of