Watertown republican. [volume] (Watertown, Wis.) 1860-1906, 1881-02-16
IFrom Harper's Magazine.l
AN IRISH ROMANCE.
BY S. S. CLOUD.

tic. and in an instant envelOp these
islands in cloud of wind-driven mist,
made me seek refuge in a cabin. It was
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 ma
terial for observation and reflection.
Whatever cleanliness was possible in a
family of eight occupying one huge room
along with two pigs was carefully main
tanned; at least, the mother and child
rem 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 ruff1ed feathers the busy fam
lily and the blazing hearth with so much
approval and satisfaction that am sure,
if chickens be susceptible to emotion,
these were very tender ones indeed. A
dog sneaked in, and seeing a stranger
went out into the rain again. The dogs,
which are not numerous on the island,
are of the most miserable and condemned
aspect, and seem to feel their ignoble
ancestry, as they invariably jumped over
wall or ran into some obscrlrity on the
approach of stranger. While drying
my dripping garments, I saw for the
first time, seated In a corner, as if to
screen himself from observation, the
figure of young man clad in white
flannel, 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 a detected
and hopeless expression as led me to in
fer that he was the fated victim of some
terrible disease-consump perhaps
and was feebly waiting through the
long hours of the day and night the
death he knew to be so sure and near. [
spoke to him, striving in my pity to ap-
pear unconscious of perceiving his mis-
cry. Without answering, he rose abrupt
ly and left the cabin. The looks of con-
Germ and inquietude in the faces about
me, told me of some unusual 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 a
letter came from America to a neighbor-
ing family inclOsing money to pay the
passage thither of their eldest daughter.
1t appeared that the young man had long
entertained a secret passion for this girl,
and when he heard that he probably
would never see her again, he declared
his love to her, and besought her to re-
main. So far from being unmindful OF
his affection, she avowed her willingness
to marry him at oace, if he would accoua-
pany her to America Immediately after
ward. This was impossible; his own
family we're 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 improving her material con-
dition, and doubted not that husbands
were as plentiful there as elsewhere;
while, If she remained, she knew the
drudgery and hopeless slavery that were
| the lot Of all around her would be hers
also. Therefore she told her sutton 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 hsd
been pronounced. Every day he grew
thinner and more wan, and he did not
partake of sufficient food to support life.
All the solicitude and tenderness of hrs
mother had not succeeded in arOusing
within him his former self, and with
tears running down her cheeks she told
me she thought he had lost his reasox
forever
Some weeks previously the school
master had written for them to priest.
distant relative of the family, who
lived In Connemara; but they had re-
ceived no reply. and she supposed he
had neither help nor counsel to give. [
pondered for long while, as sat by
the fire, upon what often proves to be
the unfortunate sincerity of men, and I
could not refrain from deplomng the no
less frequent levity Of my own sex. In
passing through the village week
afterward, I stopped to say good-day to
these kind people. when 1 found the
house scene of hustle and confusion.
My erewhile love-sick swain was, when
1 entered, making himself pair of pam
pootees; and as he bade me good-day
over dangerously starched collar, his
face glowed with health and energy.
The now cheerful and happy mother in
formed me that since my last visit they
had received letter from the priest
In Connemara, incIosing 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 fine white flannel suit to
be married in, and which thereafter he
would not again wear till his arrival at
New York, so that he, would make a