THE family of James O'Moore was a reputable | Ellen, was born with a deformity that made him inbranch of the old and broad-spreading tree of the O'Moores in Ireland. James had married young, in spite of the wise counsel of the sage and rich, who can themselves indulge in the luxury of wives and children, and think it very fitting the poor should do without them. Neither would Jemmy O'Moore be guided by others' experience, which has been well called the "stern-light of the ship." So, at five-andthirty, he was a husband and the father of nine children; "five," as his wife expressed it," gone to the Blessed Virgin, in Heaven-three boys o'er-topping their father and stouter than he, and our Rosy, dear, the beauty o' County Cork, tho' her mother should be ashamed to say it, but her mother it was alone that knew she was the truest and best that ever mother leaned upon, God bless her!" curably lame. He was beside sickly, and of a nervous temperament, and retiring disposition. He loved solitude; and, when possible, would escape from his mother and nurse and wander about the woodlands of the estate. His ruling passion was a love of wild flowers, and in trying to obtain some violets that grew on the brink of a stream that bounded the estate, he fell in, and, unable to resist the swift channel, he was carried down into an artificial pond, where he would inevitably have been drowned but for the timely intervention of Dennis Rooney. Dennis came near being dragged under by the convulsive grasp of the drowning child, but his stout arm and stouter heart prevailed; and he not only took the boy from the water, but carried him, half a mile, to the castle, and laid him in his mother's arms. Dennis was at once taken to the ing, writing and ciphering, and, what to Dennis was as important, he was put under the head gardener for instruction in his art. Master Edward now transferred his love for solitary places to the garden. His only pleasure, beyond the reach of his mother's loved and tender voice, was working beside Dennis in the flower-beds. Time did not lighten the burden of life to the poor child; as he grew older, his mind became dimmer, and his body feebler. He was always leaning on Dennis, or limping after him, and seemed to love the presence of the bright, strong, cheerful boy as a plant loves the sunshine. Those who, unreasonably, or, if they will, reasonably, dislike the Irish, cannot deny that, in the glow-castle, was taught, by Master Edward's tutor, reading fervor of their affections, in generosity to their kindred and people, and in gratitude to any member of the human family, Jew, Greek, or barbarian, who, in a kind manner, renders them a service, they are unequaled. O'Moore had a judicious and generous landlord, and he would have thriven well in his own country, with only his four surviving children to bury or bring up; but there was a cousin, with three sickly girls and a boy, to whom his kind heart bade him extend protection and support. The boy, Dennis Rooney, was, to be sure, no charge to him, or to his mother. Dennis was a stout, brave and manful boy, and, when but twelve years old, he had saved the life of the heir, and only son, of the lord of the domain on which they lived. This unfortunate only son of Sir Philip Morriti and his wife, Lady At the period when our history of the O'Moores and Rooneys begins, the three sisters of Dennis had married and gone to America, loaded with favors and presents from Sir Philip and Lady Ellen. Den nis had manifested no disposition to join them. He was quite contented with the service he was in, and never left the castle but to visit the O'Moores. "And why do you always go there, and never to fairs, or wakes, or merry-makings of any kind?" asked Lady Ellen. Dennis looked straight up, and straight down-he looked one side, and the other-he looked sheepish, in short, he looked every way but in his mistress' face, as he replied, "Sure my lady has seen Rosy O'Moore." Sure my lady had, and, with a woman's quick wit, she read the whole history of Dennis' heart. After a little consideration, she told him so drew from him a full disclosure of his wishes and dawning plaus, and promised to forward them, by giving Rosy an eligible place at the castle. That Dennis should ever leave it, while Master Edward lived, was out of the question, Lady Ellen said, and Dennis assented, for he felt himself bound there not only by Edward's dependence upon him, but by his gratitude for the multiplied favors heaped on him and his family by Sir Philip and Lady Ellen. A week had passed since he had seen Rosy. In the next half hour after his communication with Lady Ellen he was on his way to the cottage. Rosy, who always knew when it was Dennis that knocked, opened the door for him. The flush of welcome, or the blush that overspread her cheek when Dennis kissed it, soon passed away, and he observed that she was paler and less cheerful than usual. "Sure, Dennis," said the mother, "these have been the longest days of the year that you have been staying away from us." "Indeed and that's true," replied Dennis, glancing at Rose," hours are minutes here, and minutes are hours away from you." "Oh, it's getting darker than ever we saw it yet, Dennis." Dennis stared. "Is it O'Moore that's been at the castle to-day?" continued the old woman. "No." "Nor Dan, nor Pat, nor Tommy?" "Not one of them." better half of it?" Dennis' arm was round Rosy's waist, and Rosy pressed the hand that was on her heart, but she could not utter a word. Dennis wiped off the tears with Rosy's apron, saying, "there, my life, do n't send any more after them! I have news to tell you that will drive away all sorrow-sunshine to melt away all the clouds, Rosy; if one door is shut another is opened." And he proceeded to communicate the sure and near prospect that Lady Ellen's kindness had opened to them. Poor Rosy's sadness deepened at every word, and, when he had finished, she covered her face and sobbed out, "It cannot beit cannot be-Dennis, it can never be." Deunis, alarmed and confounded, was rather relieved when he found out the real lion in the way; and, after a little soothing and cheering, Rosy began to feel that there was still twilight above her horizon. She had communicated the following facts: It seemed that James O'Moore had been long vainly struggling against the current of hard times. With all the indulgence of his landlord, it was hard for him to pay his rent; and his boys, now grown to be capable and industrious, had no work to do. Emigration is the great national resource for Ireland. O'Moore's relations and friends, on every side, were going to America, and sending home letters with accounts of success, and remittances, for those left behind. A few days before, O'Moore had received letters from the husbands of Dennis' sisters. They were still in Canada, where they had heard the most tempting accounts of the facilities for settlers on the new lands in the United States, and they vehemently urged O'Moore to come out, with his sons, and join them. O'Moore was an impulsive and determined man-qualities that do not often go together. Foreseeing opposition from the women, he imparted his plan to the boys, only. They joyfully concurred with him. He made fortunate arrangements for the sale of such effects as must be left behind him, and, on the morning of that day, he told his wife and daughter that, in one week, they must be riding on the salt water. Rosy listened as she would have listened to a sentence of death, and, turning from her father, she sunk down on a chair, pale and motionless. Her mother understood her child's feelings, and, after her own surprise and shock had a little subsided, she said "Sure, Jemmy O'Moore, it's for the good of your boys, I have not a word to say again it—I "Then the news-bad luck to it-is yet to tell." Dennis was confounded. He fancied he only had news to tell, and, resolving not to have that interfered with, he turned from the mother and asked Rosy to walk down the green lane with him. Rose tied on a snow-white apron, threw her little cloak over her shoulders, and they went out together. The sentiment of the humble, like the diseases of childhood, is simple, uncomplicated, and little vary-shall not long bide it—I cannot learn to stand alone ing in its symptoms. "Thanks to you, Rosy, dear," in my old age." said Dennis, "it is not now to ask 'do you love me?" Rose only sighed in reply. "Sure that question was asked as long ago as we can remember?" "And answered just as long ago—was it not Den- my poor father, then it was you, Jemmy, and now is nis?" it not Rosy that's my prop-my rest and comfort by night and by day?" "Sure, sure it was, Rosy, and we have been as good as one ever since, having but one heart between us-troth plighted and all, and so Rosy, dear-but why are you so dark?-you send chills to the very soul of me." Rosy burst into tears. "Oh, speak, Rosy; if trouble has come to you have not I a right to the "Alone! will not we be on every side of you?" "Not she that I most lane on. I have always had something to lane upon since first lay upon my mother's bosom; when she was taken, then it was "And, God helping me, will still be, mother," said Rosy, dropping on to the floor at her mother's feet, and laying her head on her lap. "Ah, my darling, is it not you that 're promised, and, as I left all for your father, so must you leave "Now, this is just women's way," interposed Jemmy, "flying off into the clouds, instead of walking in the beaten road before you. What the divil signifies blurring your eyes, Rosy?-can't Dennis come with us?" "Never, never, father; he is duty-bound to Master Edward. It's the nearest duty we must do. I'll go with you, mother-I will, and I'll say never a word against Dennis doing God's bidding, and that is all his possible to serve poor Master Edward. Should I, that love him before all things, stand between him and his duty?" And to this noble resolution Rose adhered, at first with struggling sighs and bitter tears, and afterward with a stronger and more cheerful resignation. all for Dennis-this is the thorny way of life that and men" hung over our Irish friends. The first Providence has marked with his own finger." season, James O'Moore took the fever of the country, and died. His eldest son, finding that harder work than he had done at home met with smaller present returns, was disheartened and disgusted, and he quitted the land, and went to work on a railroad. Patrick, left to labor alone-for Thomas, the youngest, had remained in Ireland, to fulfill a year's engagement-was discouraged, and was soon laid by with "the fever," whose first victims the disheartened are. The Rooneys extended all the kindness in their power to our friends-they had difficulties of their own. The life of a settler is, at best, a life of hardship and endurance-emphatically a struggling life. The second spring opened gloomily on the O'Moores. Patrick could just crawl from his bed to the fire, his days being varied only by chills and no chills. His poor mother was like an old tree dying of transplantation, an unwise movement for an old subject. Rosy did her best with kind words, hopeful suggestions, smiles and ends of songs-her tears she kept to herself. Many a tear she shed, when there was no light in the hut but that of the smouldering log. They were all, in truth, pining with home-sickness. The Irish are often ridiculed, or contemned, for vaunting the comfortable homes they have left behind them. "The Almighty knows," they say, "what we've come here for, we were a dale better off at home!" This is false in word, but true in feeling. Their earnest affections take possession of their memories, and efface all but that which made the happiness of their birth-place, and childhood's home. There, in perpetual freshness, are the joys of youth; the associations of song and story are there-there, in golden light, all the bright passages of life-its pleasant acquaintanceships, and sparkling incidents. And there, those ministers of suffering, trial, superstition, even death itself, have their root of sorrow plucked out, and become ministering angels-messengers from another world. Who ever looked back upon home, through the vista of time, or the wide spaces of distance, and saw any thing but light and beauty there? Surely, then, the poor Irish may be pardoned the hallucinations of their filial love. How wisely and how beautifully Providence has interwoven the reciprocal relations of the rich and poor! Money could not buy, but it might reward such service as Dennis'. The sickly child of fortune was his dependent, and he was bound to the generous benefactors of his family by ties far stronger than any chains ever forged. Lady Ellen was sure her son would pine away and die, if Dennis left him; and so he probably would have done; and a man less true and constant to duty than Dennis might have questioned whether a life so feeble and profitless were worth preserving at such a cost. But there was no such question in Dennis' clear mind. He threw his love, and longings to go with Rose, into one scale, and his duty into the other, and that preponderating the thing was settled. The lovers parted. Rose came with her family to America, and Dennis remained in the service of Master Edward, at the castle. They were too young, and too strong of heart, to part without hope. "Be sure, Rosy, be sure," were almost Dennis' last words, "that poor Master Edward's shattered frame cannot stand it long, and, when it pleases God to take him to His peace, I will be after you, as fast as winds and sails can bring me." Flowers have bloomed on our prairies, and passed away, from age to age, unseen by man, and multitudes of virtues have been acted out in obscure places, without note or admiration. The sweetness of both has gone up to Heaven. The O'Moores joined the Kellys-Dennis' brothersin-law at Montreal. The limit assigned to this slight sketch of their fortunes, does not permit our detailing, step by step, their progress; led on-as such wanderers are-by chance advice, and chance acquaintance, and the hope of casting off old burdens, and gaining new advantages, they reached Illinois, and there squatted on some new land, about six miles from the thriving little town of Clifton. To reach this point, all the O'Moores' convertible property had been turned into money, and the money was nearly expended. The golden cloud that, to the poor'emigrant's eye, rests over this western world, had, till now, gone before them, and now, at the very point where they hoped it would stand still, it melted away. The fate of "the best laid schemes o' mice Dame O'Moore's widowed and sinking heart turned to Thomas. Many a weary month had come and gone since any tidings had reached them from Ireland. At last came a newspaper, forwarded by a friend in Montreal, giving an account of the wreck of a packet that had left Liverpool, on a certain day, with an unusual number of emigrants. The paper contained an imperfect list of the passengers, and among them was the name of Thomas O'Moore. "And sure it's Tommy;" said the old woman, "as I look at it I see it's Tommy's own name, and no other." "But, mother, dear," said Rosy, who could find a ray of light gleaming where all was darkness to her mother's dulled vision, "all County Cork is full of O'Moores, and are there not six Thomas O'Moores, cousins to us, or something that way, besides our own Tommy?" |