Democratic Sentinel, Volume 3, Number 49, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 16 January 1880 — CONNOR: A PATHETIC IRISH STORY. [ARTICLE]

CONNOR: A PATHETIC IRISH STORY.

To the memory of Patrick Connor; this simple stone was erected by his fellow-workmen. Tiioao words you may road any day upon a white slab in a cemetery not far from New York; but you might read them a hundred times without guessing at the little tragedy they indicate, without knowing the humble romance which ended with the placing of that stone above the dust of one poor, humble man. In hia shabby friezo jacket and randladen brogans bo was scarcely an attractive object as he walked intoltlr. 13a wne’s great tin and hardware shop one day and presented himself at the counter with an—“l’ve been told yc advertised for liTri Is, yer Honor.” “Fully supplied, my man,” said Mr. I3awne, not lifting his eyes from his account-book. “I’d work faithfully, sir, and take low wages, till I could do better, and I’d learn—l would that.” I was an Irish brogue, and Mr.l3awno always declared that he never would employ an incompetent hand. Yet tho tone attracted him. He turned briskly, and, with his pen behind his ear, addressed the man, who was only one of fifty who had answered his advertisement for four workmen that morning. “What makes you expect to learn faster than other folks—are you any smarter?”

“I’ll not say that,” said tho man, “but I’d be wishing to, aud that would make it asier.” “Are you used to the work?” “I’ve done a bit of it.” “Much?” “No, yer Honor. I’ll tell no lie; Tim O’Toole hadn’t the like of this place; but I know a bit about tins.” “You are too old tor an apprentice, and you’d be in the way, I calculate,” said Mr. Bawne, looking at the brawny arms and bright eyes that promised strength aud intelligence. “Besides, I know your countrymen--lnzy,good-for-nothing fellows, who never do their best. No, I’ve been taken in by Irish hands before, and I won’t havo an other.”

“The Virgin will have to bo after bringing them over to mo in her two arms, thin,’ said the man, despairingly, “for I’ve tramped all the day for the last fortnight, and niver a job can I get, and that s the List peuny I have, yer Honor, and it’s but half a one.” As he spoke ho spread his palm open, with an English half penny iu it. “Bring whom ever?” asked Mr. Bawne, arrested by the odd speech, as he turned upon his heel and turned back again. “Jist Nora and Jamesy.” “ Who are they?” The wan s me wife, the other mo child, said the man. “O, masther, just thry me. How’ll I bring ’em over to me, if no one will give mo a job? I want to be aiming, and the whole big city seems against it, and me with arms like them!’ Ho bared his arms to the shoulder as he spoke, and Mr. Bawne looked at them, and then at his face. „ “EH hire you for a week,” he said; ‘ ana now, as it’s noon, go down to the kitchen and tell the girl to get you some dinner—a hungry man can’t work.” With an Irish blessing, the new hand' obeyed, wnile Mr. Bawne, untying his apron, went up stairs to his own meal. Suspicious as he was of the now hand’s integrity and ability, he was agreeably disappointed. Connor worked hard, and actually learned fast. At the end of the week he was engaged permanently, and soon was the best workman in the shop. He was a great talker, but not fond of drink or wasting money. As his wages grew, he hoarded every penny, and wore the same shabby clothes in which he made his first appearance. “ Beer costs money,” he said one day, “ and ivery ciut I spind puts off the bringing .Nora and Jamesy over; and as for clothes, them I have must do me. Better no coat to my back than no wife and boy by my fireside; and, anyhow, it s slow work saving.” It was slow work, but he kept at it all the same. Other men, thoughtless and full of fun, tried to make him drink; made a jest of his saving habits, ooazed him to accompany them to places of

amusement, or to share in their Sunday frolics. All in vain. Connor liked beer, liked fun, liked companionship; but he would not delay that long-looked-for bringing of Nora over, and was not “ mane enough ” to accept favors of others. He kept his way a martyr to his one great wish, living on little, working at night on any extra job that he could earn a few shillings by, running errands in his noontide hoars of rest, and talking to any one who would listen to him of his one great hope, and of Nora and little Jamesy. At first the men, who prided themselves on being all Americans, and on taming out the best work in the city, made a sort of butt of Connor, whose wild Irish ways and verdancy were indeed often laughable. Bnt he won their hearts at last, and one day, mounting a work-bench, he shook Ms little bundle, wrapped in a red handkerchief, before their eyes, and shouted, “ Look, boys; I’ve got the whole at but! I’m going to bring Nora and Jamesy over at last! Whoroo!! I’ve got it at last! 11” All felt sympathy in his joy, and each grasped his great hand in cordial congratulations, and one proposed to treat all round, and drink a good voyage to Nora.

They parted in a merry mood, most of the men going to comfortable homes. But poor Connor’s resting-place was a lodging-house, where he shared a crazy garret with four other men, and in the joy of his heart the poor fellow exhibited his handkerchief, with his hardearned savings tied up in a wad in the middle, before he put it under his pillow and fell asleep. When he awakened in the morning he found his treasure gone; some villain, more contemptible than most bad men, had robbed him. A t first Connor could not even believe it lost. He searched every corner of the room, shook his quilt and blankets, and begged those about him to “quit joking, and give it back.” But at last he realized the truth. “Is any man that bad that it’s thaved from me?” he asked, in a breathless way. “Boys, is any man that bad?” And some one answered: “No doubt of it, Connor; it’s sthole.” Then Connor put his head down on his hands and lifted up his voice and wept. It was one of those sights which men never forget. It seemed more than he could bear to have Nora and his child “pat,” as he expressed it, “months away from him again.” But when he went to work that day it seemed to all who saw him that he had picked. up a new determination. His hands were never idle. His face seemed to say, “I’ll have Nora with me yet.” At noon he scratched out a letter, blotted and very strangely scrawled, telling Nora what had happened; and those who observed him noticed that he had no meat with his dinner. Indeed, from that moment he lived on bread, potatoes and cold water, and worked as few men ever worked before. It grew to be the talk of the shop, and, now that sympathy was excited, every one wanted to htlp Connor. Jobs were thrown in his way, kind words and friendly wishes helped him mightily; but no power could make him share the food or drink of any other workman. It seemed a sort of charity to him.

Still ho was helped along. A present from Mr. Bawne at pay-day set Nora, as ho said, “a week nearer,” and this and tliaf and tho other added to the little hoard. It grew faster than the first, and Connor’s harden was not so heavy. At last, before ha hoped it, he yvas once more able to say: “ I’m going to bring them,” and to show his handkerchief in which, a? before, he tied up his earnings; this time, however, only to his friends. Cautious among strangers, he hid the treasure, and kept his vest buttoned over it night and day until tho tickets were bought and sent. Then every man, woman and child, capable of hearing or understanding, knew that Nora and her baby were coming. There was John Jones, who had more of the brute in his composition than usually falls to tho lot of man, would spend ten minutes of the noon hour in reading the Irish news to Connor. There was Tom Barker, the meanest man among the number, who had never been known to give anything to any one before, absolutely bartered an old jacket for a pair of gilt vases, whioh a peddler brought in his basket to the shop, and presented them to Connor for his Nora’s mantel-piece. And here was idle Dick, the apprentice, who actually Worked two hours on Connor’s work when illness kept the Irishman at home ono day. Conuor felt this kindness, and returned it whenever it was in his power, and the days flew by and brought at last a letter from his wife. “ She .would start as he desired, and she was well and so was the boy, and might the Lord bring them safely to each other’s arms, and biers them who had been so kind to him.” That was the substance of the epistle which Connor proudly assured his fellow-work-men Nora wrote herself. She had lived at service as a girl, with a certain good old lady, who had given her the items of an education, which Connor told upon his fingers: ' The radin’, that’s one, the writin’, that’s three, and, moreover, she knows all that a woman can.” Then he looked up with tears in his eyes, and asked: “Do you wonder the timo seems long between me an’ her, boys ?” So it was. Nora at the dawn of day —Nora at noon—Nora at night—until the news came that the Stormy Petrel had come to port, and Connor, breathless and-pale witn excitement, flung up his cap in the air and shouted. It happened on a holiday afternoon, and half a dozen men were ready-to go with Connor to the steamer and give his wife a greeting. Her little home was ready; Mr. Bawne’s own servant had jrat it in order, and Connor took ono peep at it before he started. “She liadn’t the like of that in the ould connthry,” he said; “but she’ll know how to keep them tidy.” Then he led the way toward the dock where the steamer lay, and at a pace that made it hard for the rest to follow him. The spot was reached at last; a crowd of vehicles blockaded the street; troop of emigrants came thronging up; tine cabin passengers were stepping iuto cabs, and drivers, porters, and all manner of employes were yelling and shouting in the usual manner. Nora would wait on board for her husband; he knew that.

The little group made their way into the vessel at last, and there, amid those who sat watching for coming friends, Connor searched for the two so dear to him; patiently at first eagerly but patiently—but by-and-by growing anxious and excited. “She would never go alone,” he said, “she’d be lost entirely; I bade her wait, but I don’t see her, boys; I think she’s not in it.” “ Why don’t you see the Captain ?” asked one, and Connor jumped at the suggestion. In a few minutes he stood before a portly, rubicund man, who nodded to him kindly. “I am looking for m3' wife, yer Honor,” said Connor, “and 3 can’t find her.” “Perhaps she’s gone ashore,” said the Captain. “I bade her wait,” said Connor. “Women don’t always do as they are bid, you know,” said the Captain. “Nora would,” said Connor, “but

maybe she was left behind. Maybe she didn’ come. I somehow think she didn’t." At the name of Nora the Captain started. In a moment he asked, “What is your name?" “Pat Connor,” said the man. “And your wife’s name was Nora?” “ That’s her name, and the boy with her is Jamesy, yer Honor,” said Connor. The Captain looked at Connor’s friends; they looked at the Captain. Then he said, hnskily, “Sit down, my man; I’ve got something to tell you.” “She’s left behind?” said Connor. “She sailed with ns,” said the Captain. “Where is she?” asked Connor. The Captain made no answer. “My man,” he said, “w<s all have our trials; God sends them. Yes—Nora started with ns.” Connor said nothing. He was looking at the Captain now, white to his lips. “It’s been a sickly season,” said the Captain; “we have had illness on board —the cholera. You know that?”

“I didn’t; I can't read; they kept it from me,” said Connor. “We didn’t want to frighten him,” said one, in a half whisper. “Yon know how long we lay at quarantine?- ’ “The ship I came in did that,” said Connor. “ Did ye say Nora went ashore? Ought Ito be looking for her, Captain ?” “ Many died—many children,” went on the Captain. “ When we were half way here your boy was taken sick.” “Jamesy?” gasped Connor. “ His mother watched him night and day,” said the Captain, “ and we did all we could, but at last he died; only one of many. There were five buried that day. But it broke my heart to see the mother looking out upon the water. ‘ It’s his father I think of,’ said she, ‘he’s longing to see poor Jamesy.’” Connor groaned. “ Keep up if you can, my man,” said the Captain. “I wish any one else had to tell it rather than I. That night Nora was taken ill also, very suddenly; she grew worse fast. In the morning she called me to her. * Tell Connor I died thinking of him,’ she said, * and tell him to meet me.’ And, my man, God help you, she never said anything mere—in an hour she was gone.” Connor had risen. He stood up, trying to steady himself, looking at the Captain with his eyes dry as two stones. Then he turned to liis friends. “I’ve got my death, boys,” he said, and then dropped to the deck like a log. They raised him and bore him away. In an hour he was at home on the little bed which had been made ready for Nora, weary with her long voyage. There at last he opened his eyes. Old Mr. Bawne bent over him; he had been summoned by tho news, and the room was full of Connor’s fellow-workmen. “Better, Connor? ’’asked the old man. “ A dale,” said Connor, “ it’s aisy now; I’ll be with her soon. And look ye, masther, I’ve learned one thing— God is good; He wouldn’t let mo bring Nora over to me, but He’s takin’ me over to her and Jamesy, over the river; don’t you see it, and her standin’ on the other side to welcome me?” And with these word's Connor stretched out his arms. Perhaps he did see Nora—Heaven only knows—and so he died.