N.
BARNY O’GRADY.
Behold me safely landed at Philadelphia, with one hundred pounds in my pocket—a small sum of money; but many, from yet more trifling beginnings, have grown rich in America. Many passengers who came over in the same ship with me had not half so much. Several of them were indeed wretchedly poor. Among others there was an Irishman, who was known by the name of Barny—a contraction, I believe, for Barnaby. As to his surname, he could not undertake to spell it, but he assured me there was no better. This man, with many of his relatives, had come to England, according to their custom, during harvest time, to assist in reaping, because they gain higher wages than in their own country. Barny had heard that he should get still higher wages for labour in America, and accordingly he and his two sons, lads of eighteen and twenty, took their passage for Philadelphia. A merrier mortal I never saw. We used to hear him upon deck, continually singing or whistling his Irish tunes; and I should never have guessed that this man’s life had been a series of hardships and misfortunes.
When we were leaving the ship, I saw him, to my great surprise, crying bitterly; and upon inquiring what was the matter, he answered that it was not for himself, but for his two sons, he was grieving; because they were to be made redemption men; that is, they were to be bound to work, during a certain time, for the captain, or for whomsoever he pleased, till the money due for their passage should be paid. Although I was somewhat surprised at any one’s thinking of coming on board a vessel without having one farthing in his pocket, yet I could not forbear paying the money for this poor fellow. He dropped down on the deck upon both his knees, as suddenly as if he had been shot, and holding up his hands to heaven, prayed, first in Irish, and then in English, with fervent fluency, that “I and mine might never want; that I might live long to reign over him; that success might attend my honour wherever I went; and that I might enjoy for evermore all sorts of blessings and crowns of glory.” As I had an English prejudice in favour of silent gratitude, I was rather disgusted by all this eloquence; I turned away abruptly, and got into the boat which waited to carry me to shore.
I had now passed three years in Philadelphia, and was not a farthing the richer, but, alas, a great deal poorer. My inveterate habit of procrastination—of delaying every thing till TO-MORROW, always stood betwixt me and prosperity. I at last resolved upon leaving the land of the star-spangled banner; but when I came to reckon up my resources, I found that I could not do so, unless I disposed of my watch and my wife’s trinkets. I was not accustomed to such things, and I was ashamed to go to the pawnbroker’s, lest I should be met and recognised by some of my friends. I wrapped myself up in an old surtout, and slouched my hat over my face. As I was crossing the quay, I met a party of gentlemen walking arm in arm. I squeezed past them, but one stopped and looked after me; and though I turned down another street to escape him, he dodged me unperceived. Just as I came out of the pawnbroker’s shop, I saw him posted opposite me; I brushed by; I could with pleasure have knocked him down for his impertinence. By the time that I had reached the corner of the street, I heard a child calling after me; I stopped, and a little boy put into my hand my watch, saying, “Sir, the gentleman says you left your watch and these thingumbobs by mistake.”
“What gentleman?”
“I don’t know, but he was one that said I looked like an honest chap, and he’d trust me to run and give you the watch. He is dressed in a blue coat, and went towards the quay. That’s all I know.”
On opening the paper of trinkets, I found a card with these words:—“Barny—with kind thanks.”
“Barny! poor Barny! An Irishman whose passage I paid coming to America three years ago. Is it possible?”