Willy Burke;

Front matter

o

* V-CT

J’ ^ ♦rAW/Vi

Chapter I. The Departure From Ireland, And Death At Sea

It was a sorrowful day in a certain parish of the county Tipperary, when Andy Burke, one of the principal farmers of the district, set out with his numerous family for “ the land of the Far West.” In their day of prosperity, Andy Burke and his worthy help-mate had been public benefactors — the comforts by which they were surrounded were liberally shared with their poorer neighbors, and their house had ever afforded a shelter for the houseless wanderer. Like Goldsmith’s curate, “ the long remember’d beggar was their guest, ” year after year, and the warmest nook in the Avide kitchen was ever reserved for the poor wayfarer. Their children had grown up amid the prayers and blessings of the poor, and now when the hand of misfortune weighed heavily on them all — when the good farmer found it necessary to emigrate with his family to America, in order to procure" for them some sort of establishment, the event was regarded as a calamity in which the whole neighborhood shared. In those days (some twenty years ago") emigration was not what it now is, and he or she who set out for a land beyond the sea was regretted almost as though the grave were about to shut him in for ever. It is true that America was then regarded by our simple peasantry as a “ land flowing -with milk and honey”— or, to speak less meta^orically, as the land of gold and silver, where wealth rolled on in a ceaseless stream, and to be caught needed but to reach out the hand. But then the penalty— the dread penalty — which must flrst be paid — the separation from home and country — the dangers of the ocean, fearfully exggerated in the mouths of rustic narrators, and the length of time which it then took to perform the voyage. All these conspired to make it an undertaking of great difficulty and much danger, and El Dorado as it was, it had but few charms for either Burke or his wife. The latter especially had many and sad misgivings as to the result of the step they were about taking, and to the very last she could scarcely bring herself to look forward with hope. It was the Sunday evening before their departure when the worthy couple sat together in melancholy mood, talking over the matter so often discussed before.

“ Well, after all, Andy,” said his wife, “ I can’t help thinkin’ that it would have been as Avell, ay, an' better, for us to stay at home, where, if we came to throuble or dissolation, we’d have the ould neighboxirs and friends about us to comfort us.”

“ An’ sure there’s ne’er a one knows that betther than myself, Biddy, asihore machree, ” said Andy, as he took the pipe from his mouth and laid it on the hob (i. e. back-stone) beside him, “ but then, as I often tould you before, this poor ould country’s growin’ every day worse an’ worse, an’ where’s the prospect for a large family risin’ up about us ? Sure, as i^ is now, it’s jist all we can do to pay the landlord and the tithe-proctor, and all the rest, so that we’re only Avorkin’ the skin off our bones for them that does’nt thank \is ; and when the boys an’ the girls are grown up what have they before them here but a life of hard labor, an’ nothin’ for it — that’s the worst of all. No, no, affra ! for their sakes we must go to the strange country, while we have a little money in our hands, for if we waited some time longer it ’ud slip through our fingers, and lave us without the manes of goin’ any where.”

“ Well, I know it’s all true enough, Andy dear,” rcpKed Bidd3'-, with a heavj' sigh, “ an I’m not the one to gainsay what I know is God’s tliruth, but then would’nt it be betther to live in poverty here, where we have our chapel an’ our priest vithin a mile of us — an’ where we have the comfort of seein’ good Christians all about us, than to be livin’ ever so grand in a sthrango countrj', where they say you’d may be have to thravel hundreds o’ miles without seein’ a priest or an altar ? Sure, would’nt it be betther to see the childher beggin’ their bread, or livin’ on some good Christian’s flure, for their bit an’ sup, than to endanger the loss of their sowls ? Is’ntthe blessin’ o’ God, an’ the happiness of livin’ in his holy church, beyant all the riches in the world ?”

“ Thrue enough, Biddy, thrue enough, an’ sure it’s yerself has always the good thought with you, but there’s no use frettin’ about it now when everything is ready to set out in the momin’.” Here some of the children ran in to say that Father Maloney was coming up the boreen, whereupon there was a general move, and all went to the door to receive the priest, who had come on purpose to pa}' a farewell visit, and leave his benediction with a family which stood so high in his estimation. It was now drawing towards evening, and one after another the neighbors entered, each one reverently saluting the priest, and having received a friendly word or smile, retired to where some friend was seated, if possible near some of the Burke family, who were of course the objects of all attention. Around the wide hearth was drawn a circle consisting of the priest, Andy Burke and his wife, and some ten or twelve of the older neighbors, of both sexes. The remainder of the large kitchen was crowded with youug people — boys and girls, men and women, — while here and there amongst them might be seen the yormg sons and daughters of the house, each forming the centre of a little group. And the children, amazed at finding themselves suddenly so important, waxed forward and loquacious, and chatted away more flippantly than they had ever done before. About nightfall a stir was visible about the door, giving reason,so suppose that some distinguished arrival had taken place, and a voice was heard saying, “ Arrah, then. Tommy Cooney, will you jist take your long legs out o’ the master’s road ! Mrs. Burke ; ma’am, here’s master Dogherty, but the sorra bit o’ him can get in, at all, at all !” A way was instantly made for the honored guest, and Biddy herself came forward with both hands outstretched, and a cordial “ God save you* masther.” "God save you kindly, Mrs. Burke,*’ was the old man’s quick reply, as she led him up to a seat beside the priest, “ sure I came to see the last of the boys and girls, and to give ye all an old man’s blessing — where are the little ones ?”

" Here, master,” — and "here” — and “here” — and before the worthy pedagogue could find time to make a suitable reply to Father Maloney’s friendly salutation, he found himself surrounded by the younger children, four in number, while the two elder, a boy and a girl, hung timidly back, awaiting their turn to receive the honor of the master’s notice. Even when the good man had taken the seat placed for him by Biddy, he had one of the children on either knee, c^essing each in turn.

" God knows, your reverence,” said the schoolmaster, addressing the priest, " God knows, this fam*ily is a loss to the whole parish, for old and young of them were an example to all — sure, I may say it now, as they’re going away from me, I had’nt the like of these children in my school ; and I declare to you. Father Maloney, I loved them as if they were my own flesh and blood.”

“I do not at all doubt it, Mr. Dogherty,” rejoined the priest, " and I have only, for my part, to wish that they may continue, when in a foreign land, as good and docile as you and I have ever found them. To this end we have to pray that God may spare to them their worthy parents.”

“An’ I hope, children,” said master Dogherty, wliile his voice trembled with emotion, “an’ I hope ye’ll not forget the poor old man that taught ye how to road your prayer-books — an’ that ye’ll remember him in your prayers— an’ never be ashamed of your country, as they say some grow to be — but always be proud of being bom in poor old Ireland, because it was, ay, and it is, the Island of Saints, — and above all, children, ye’ll be mindful of the old faith — the old religion that ye learned here at home ; for ye may be sure that if ye forget it, or let yourselves be drawn away from it, ye have no chance for happiness in the world to come. Think of this, an’ remember that ye have often heard his reverence here say from the altar, that “ there is but - the one thing necessary.” Each of ye have but one soul, an’ if you lose it what will become of you ?”

'The children listened with downcast ej'es, while not only their parents but all the immediate auditors were affected even to tears by the touching solemnity of the old man’s accents. Meanwhile there was a running fire of question and answer going on at the low'er end of the kitchen. Many stories were told of wonderful fortunes made in a short time in America, and of marvellous adventures which there befel sundrj' persons mentioned. Excited by these narratives many of the young people were heard to wish that they had the means of going. “An’ it is’nt the money, aither, that ’id keep me at home,’’ said one young fellow, “ for, with God’s help, I could raise as much as 'id take me, but then the ould mother yondher ’id never hear o’ me goin’, and > troth, if it was’nt for her I’d be oif with the Burkes.’’

“ An’ me too, Ned,’’ cried Larry Gallagher, his friend and neighbor, “ only my father would’nt hear tell of it — he says it’s an unnatural thing to leave poor ould Ireland, where we were bred an’ born, an’ our generations afore us. But maybe he’d give in some day, afther all, an’ then it ’id be ‘ hey for America,’— an’ I’d have my share o’ the goold or I’d know for what, bedad I would.’’

As the family were to start before day-light the following morning, their beds were all packed up, and though they had been solicited with genuine Irish warmth to bestow themselves for the night on various of the neighbors, yet they declined, thinking it useless to seek repose which must have been so very short. It was, however, arranged that the younger children should sleep in the next house, and accordingly they were sent early to bed, — not, however, before the priest had given his blessing to the whole family. About nine o’clock. Father Maloney took an affectionate leave of those whom, as he said, he was in all probability to meet no more on this side the grave, and it was observed that as he raised his hand over the head of each individual and breathed an inu'ard prayer, only perceptible by the motion of his lips, that his aged eyes, when he raised them to heaven, were dim udth tears. When he turned to go away, he fdVind that all present were kneeling in expectation of his blessing, and as he passed along he made the sign of the cross, invoking the divine benediction on these humble, faithful Christians — so sublime in the ^trusting earnestness of their devotion. He had almost reached the door when Andy Burke’s second son, a boy of eleven or twelve years old, was clinging to his coat.

“ I want you to bless me again. Father Maloney,” and the tears were chasing each other over the child’s rosy cheeks. “ An’ I hope you’ll pray for me, and daddy, and mammy, and all of us,” he added, “when we’re far aAvay from you.”

. •• God bless you, my boy ! God bless you, and mark you with grace ! — you have always been a good, dutiful child, and may you continue to be a consolation to your poor parents in the strange land whither they and you are going ! Be assured, Willy, that if my poor prayers can obtain favor for you all from Almighty God, they shall not be wanting.” The good man spoke in a thick, husky voice, and he hastened away, e^ndently desirous to hide his emotion.

The rest of the company declared their intention of remaining over night, so as to accompany the Burkes some miles of the way on the following morning, and the night-hours passed away in sad but friendly cotiversation. About the middle of the night the rosary was said, being read aloud by Master Dogherty, and responded to by all persent, young and old. It was, and still is, the pious custom of our people to approach the sacraments immediately before their departure from Ircland,and this consoling duty had been faithfully performed by the family in question, who had all, with the exception of the youngest child, (who was only six years old) received the holy communion on that memorable Sunday in their parish church, and from the revered hands of Father Malony. Beautiful is the piety — the simple and unostentatious piety of the peasantry of Ireland, — beautiful when at home in their own loved island of sorrow, — it sustains their sinking souls in poverty, and harship, and grievous "■ privation, — and not less lovely it is when we find it strengthening and fortifying their souls against temptation in the foreign land, where perchance it is treated with ridicule and contempt by the half-infidel scoffers of the world. Aye, still more radient are then its divine lineaments,— its truthfulness, — its humility, and its mildness, when brought into contrast with the proud, arrogant, doubting spirit of the age, — the cold, sceptical age in which we live ! It was still dark, on that Monday morning, when the comfortable ‘ homestead of Andy Burke was left to utter loneliness, — when the family that had for so many long years nestled in peace and love beneath its well-,gmoked rooftree, set forth as wanderers for a distant, and to them, unknown country, — carrying with them little but the hoarded faith of their fathers, and the love and respect of their humble neighbors. Yet these were blessings, — great and consoling, and so did Andy Burke and his wife regard them. Like the dove, sent out from the shelter of the ark, they went forth over the world’s waste, unknowing where they should find a resting place, but their souls were in peace amid all their sorrow, for they were filled mth an humble yet lively confidence in God. Some of the convoy (as these processions are called ) being on foot, went but a few miles of the journey, and then returned home, with many a fervent blessings on th e heads of the travellers. Others who were variously mounted, some on horseback,and others on the wheeled cars of the country, accompanied the Burkes to the town whence they were to embark for Liverpool, and it was already noon-day when they all stopped before the steam-boat office.

At length the final moment came, and it was one of severe trial. The friendship of years was rent asunder, as though by death, and they who had grovm up side by side, — whose childhood, and youth, and maturity had passed together, were now parted, as they sadly felt, “ to meet no more on earth.” But here again came in the consoling aid of their common faith, and with the parting grasp of the hand were spoken such touching assurances as these: — “Well! God be mth yees all! — an’ sure, when yees are all far away, we’ll never let ye out of our mind nor our hearts. With God’s help we’ll never forget to offer up the pather an’ avy night an’ mornin’, for your welfare, an’ when we’re sajdn’ the rosary in the chapel above, sxire everj' body 'ill keep yees in mind. An’ I pray God, Andy Burke and Biddy, an’ childhre dear, that we may all meet again in the glory of heaven !”

“ The Lord’s blessin’ bo about yees, wherever ye go !” said another, with a choking voice, — “ for sure its yerselves that earned no- * thin’ else, an’ livin’ or dead as ye may be, while there’s one of m alive to offer up a prayer,yees ’ll have it, from our hearts out. God bless ye, childhre ! and make yees all happy in this world, an’ the world to come. Ochone ! its the black sight to many a one to see yer backs turned, an’ the ould walls left bare an’ lonely — an’ God he sees that. Sure there’s many a creature ’ll miss ye sore, and when they’re passin’ tJie home, they’ll be offerin’ up the prayer to God for them, that used to have the warm fire-side, and the good bit an’ sup for them !”

The protracted parting was at last over, and the Burkes, old and young, were fairly embarked,— the father and mother, grave and sad as their tearful gaze rested on the swift- receding shores of that land now painfully dear to their aching hearts, the young people gradually losing sight of their sorrow in the novelty of ey. ery thing around. The sea, the coast,the li^ j >» houses, the steamboat, and the hundreds trauge faces it bore along over the waters, had all and each the power of weaning their young minds from thoughts of sadness, and it was only when the violent motion of the boat began to sicken them that they could be prevailed upon to leave the deck, and go below.

Even the passage of that narrow sea, though already effected by steam, was by no means so* rapid as it now is, and the Burkes found it of all but endless duration,for it chanced that a heavy sea was sweeping through the channel, and its violent heavings affected all more or less. The sight of Liverpool, (dirty, smoky town that it is) was a welcome one to them, and it was -ndth grateful hearts, and a sense of relief that they found themselves again on the dry, firm-land, although it was the land of England.

Next day our emigrants embarked for New York, on board the good ship Dublin ; and it appeared as though they set out under favorable auspices, for the weather was fair and tolerably mild, and the long swell of the oceanwave was but slightly broken by the breeze. Wind and tide were favorable, and the hopes of passengers and crew ran high, in anticipation of a quick and pleasant voyage. There

ere, however, two individuals on board who

oked on the animated scene, without and within the vessel, without catching even the smallest particle of the invigorating spirit which seemed to actuate all around. These were Andy Burke and his wife — the former of whom seemed w'eighed down by some dark, hidden feeling, which wore him away day by day ; and the latter by fears, newly-awakened « fears, for her husband’s health. To all others, he seemed as well as he had ever been ; but there was a flush on his wan cheek, and a light in his hollow eye, that could not pass the scrutinizing glance of affection ; and poor Biddy felt her heart sink within her, as the thought for the first time crossed her mind — “ What would become of us all, if Andy was taken from us ? ”

For some days she kept her fears to herself, dreading lest any expression of them might be injurious to her husband ; but at length she could contain herself no longer, and ventured to ask, “Andy, aAaywr / what’s the matter w’ith ye, at all ? Sure ye don’t look like the same man since we left Liverpool ! If it’s grievin’ ye are for lavin’ home, sure, aroon ! there’s no use in frettin’ about what can’t be helped, an’ only it was God’s will we would’nt be on the $haxtghran this blessed day — so, for that raison, we must make the best of it, an’ not murmur,

for fear God might afflict us more an’ more ! ’’

n

“ Well ! since ye want to know, Biddy, ostore / ” returned her husband, “ I’ll just tell ye the thruth. Ever since we left home, there’s something over me, an’ I dunna what it is — I think I’m as well as ever I was, but somehow or another there’s like a heavy weight on my heart — an’ at times it crushes me so that I’m as much dead as alive — whatever’ s the raison of it. But, my dear ! I’m always tliinkin’ that I’ll never see the other side, an’ sure, God help me ! that same would’ nt thi'ouble me much, only for you an’ the childhre, poor things ! ”

“ Tut, tut, man ! ” said his wife, affecting a tone of remonstrance, though she found it difficult to restrain her tears, on hearing her own secret forebodings echoed back from her husband’s heart. “ Sure, it’s a shame to hear a sensible man talkin’ that way ! It’s the black grief, I tell you, that’s makin’ you so down-hearted, an’ it does’nt become a God-fearin’ man to be so easy cast down. With the help of God, we’ll both live to see the chidhre well settled in Amerikey, an’ then it’s no matther how soon we’re taken home, for, God knows, there’s no great pleasure to be expected in this world. Keep up your heart, then, Andy ! for the love o’ God, do ! not to spake o’ myself an’ the poor cratures that’s dependin’ on you ! ” A sorrowful shake of the head was Andy’s reply, and aa some of the cliUdren drew near at the moment, the subject was dropped for that time.

Alas ! these gloomy presentiments were all too soon realized, for Andy visibly declined, and day after day saw him grow paler and thinner, and more dejected. At length he was forced to keep his bed, and a hectic fever set in which very soon exhausted his remaining strength, and left not a shadow of hope for his recovery. Even poor Biddy, though she had bravely struggled against despair while the slightest possibility existed that her husband might still be spared, even she was at last driven to confess that hope had vanished, and in the fullness of her grief she gathered her children around her and told them the dreadful tidings. Her voice was broken by choking sobs, but her young auditors were not slow in catching the fatal import of her words, knowing as they did that their beloved fi^thcr was very, very ill. From that moment they nestled around his bed with redoubled fondness, each vicing with the other who should minister to his wants, and anticipate his wishes. Yet they had been warned by their mother not to make any show of grief ; and it was a touching sight to see the self-control which they exercised in. consequence. At times, when the cider boys, who were respectively thirteen and eleven, found it impossible to refrain from tears, thoy would steal away from the bedside of their dying father, and sitting down side by side in some remote corner, they would give free vent to their sorrow. The young ones would from time to time draw near their mother, with stealthy caution, and whisper in her ear, “ I think daddy’s betther the day — don’t you sec how red his cheeks are ! ” A burst of tears was the only answer, for Biddy well knew that death was rapidly doing his work, and that the glow on the emaciated face was but the flush of internal disease.

It chanced that the ship, though leaving her port under auspices so favorable, was much retarded in her progress by strong w'estem gales, so that, though she had no very great storm to encounter, yet the voyage was a rough and tedious one. For seven long weeks was she kept buffetting about on the wide ocean, wuthoiit making any considerable progress, and eight weeks had passed since “ the last glimpse of Erin ” had disappeared from the eyes of the emigrants, when one morning, just as the shades of night were vanishing from sky and sea, Biddy Burke awoke her younger children from their sleep, and made a sign for them to rise — she could not speak. Hastily donning their little garments, the wondering children followed their mother — it was but a few paces — to theii- father’s bed, where they found their two brothers kneeling, with their faces hid between their hands. A scream burst forth from the little ones, as they looked at the bed, for their father lay still, as though he w’cre dead, and the ghastly paleness of his face was fearful to see. He was not dead, however, though his hour was just then come, and the voice of his children woke him from his lethargic slumber. “ Kneel down, all of ye ! ” ho said, in a feeble voice, “ till I give ye my blessin’ — God help ye, poor children, I hav’nt much else to lave ye ! ” When the whole sorrowful group knelt before him, the mother as well as the children, the dying man raised his clasped hands to heaven, and breathed an inw'ard prayer that the God of tlie widow and the orphan might protect them through life, and guide them to a happy eternity. Then, stretching out his right hand, he made the sign of the cross over their heads, murmuring, “ The blessin’ o’ the Holy Trinity — Father, Son, an’ Holy Ghost, be upon yes all, and may the good and merciful God bring us all together again, in the kingdom of his glory ! An’ now, listen to your father, childhren ! for the last time on earth. I’m not able to say much, but ye’ll mind what

I tell ye— I trust in God ye will ! Hush your cryin’ an’ sobbin’ now for a little while, for ye have time enough for that Avhen I’m gone.” There was, in a moment, a profound silence, and the dying Christian spoke again, though frequently obliged to stop from excessive weakness.

“ You’ll soon land in a strange counthry, childhren, where ye’ll have to work your way through as best ye can. An’ though its God’s will that ye’ll have no father to do for ye, or to watch over ye, still He leaves ye, in his mercy, a wise an’ a lovin’ mother, and my dyin’ advice is that next to God above, ye’ll love an’ honor Aer. Never do any thing without her consent, or without consultin’ her, and then ye’ll be sure to do well. An’ now I’ll give ye the same charge that my own father gave to me with his dyin’ lips : — Be faithful to God, an’ love an’ obey his holy church, an’ never be ashamed of your religion, for if ye do God will reject you in this world,an’ the world to come ! Now, God’s blessin’ an’ mine be about ye all. Biddy astore !” he said after a pause, but he spoke so low that she was obliged to bend down to catch his words, “ it would give me great consolation if I could only recave the rites o’ the church : — but God sees all things, an’ he sees how it grieves me that I jan’t have that happiness. But when you get to New York, Biddy dear, ye’ll not forget to have some masses offered up for me, that God may have mercy on my poor soul ! — do’nt cry, agra machree ! I see you can’t spake, — but I know you’ll do as I say ; there now, put that little crucifix in my hand, — that ’ll do, ahagur. Christ Jesus have, mercy on me, — mother of Jesus, pray for me ! — sweet Lord take me home to mj' eternal rest.” There was a dead silence for some minutes, — not even the youngest child was heard to utter a sound, — many of the passengers knelt around, but all were silent ; — Biddy bent down over the dying man, and held in her breath to listen, but all was still, — suddenly one deep, convulsive sigh issued from the talf closed lips, — a shiver ran through the whole body, so that even the bed-clothes were seen to quiver, and then all was over. “ May the Lord have mercy on your soul, for now its gone before the judgment seat !” cried the poor, bereaved wife, as her tears, long suppressed, now burst forth, and fell like rain on the pale, shrunken face of the dead. Then, as her children echoed her crj”^, and burst into wild lamentations, “ Ay ! we may cry now, childhre, dear, for we’ll not disturb him now, — we may cry, farear agar! but it’ll do us no good,— it’ll not bring back the sowl that’s gone. But what am I doin’ at all she said, suddenly falling on her knees, “ what am 1 about that I’m not prayin’ for him, an’ him before the judge this blessed minit. Kneel down, childliren I an’ ye, good people all ! an’ let us offer up oar prayers for him !”