Dear Reader,

Some voices don’t fade — they travel.

In this free newsletter, we share a letter written in 1882 by a man named Patrick Callaghan. It was sent from Fort Warren in Boston Harbour to his sister in County Waterford — a message carried across an ocean and across time.

He hadn’t seen home in six years.

What follows isn’t history from a distance. It’s the kind that writes itself in grief, worry, and the hard-earned wisdom of exile. A voice not preserved for print, but meant for someone he loved — and somehow, still reaching us today.

A Voice Carried Home

Fort Warren, March 9ᵗʰ 1882

My Dear Sister,

I received your letter yesterday and was sorry to hear how Johnny died. Your grief at home must be terrible. I was greatly affected myself although away from home nearly six years. I hope none of the rest of you got it.

You stated you wanted to get a situation. Well you ought to stay at home for the present. If you can get a situation in Ireland that suits you, take it. But Bridget, never come to America unless you have some friends here that have a home, and can promise you a situation in a good family. Don’t come to America unless you get them conditions.

You’re a girl — I was a boy that could stand adversity in any form and adapt myself to my difficulties. I’ll write some more on this subject sometime else. I tell you truly there’s more destitution in some of these Eastern cities, and far more vice than in Ireland.

It did surprise me a little to hear you got an Englishman learning farming. You also remarked what Dada said about working the D---l out of him. I say D. and you all ought to treat him with kindness and respect. Forty pounds a year is a considerable lot of money anywhere, besides making himself useful. Let not the boys hurt his feelings on account of he being an Englishman. I’ve travelled with Englishmen — the best men I’ve met except some Americans.

You say you got no Irish Worlds since 1ˢᵗ January. Well I suppose they are seized in Ireland. However, that paper shall go there. I shall send within one week eight I.W. registered in Dada’s or Oweny’s name. I shall send a letter to you the day I register them and if you fail to get them on the day you get my next letter, let me know. That will be time enough to answer this letter.

How are all thy family? Owen, Tom, James, William, N., and poor Maggie. I hope Uncle John will soon be released by Buckshot. What has become of his farm? I hope nobody is base enough to take it.

Give my love to D. M. bros. sis.
I remain your affectionate brother,
Patrick

P.S. I shall register eight newspapers every two months, or perhaps monthly.
Your last letter was too heavy (postal weight).

What Remains Between the Lines

It’s not often we get to listen in on something so personal without feeling intrusive.

Patrick’s letter isn’t polished. It isn’t crafted for print. But that’s what gives it its power. You can feel the love and frustration in his voice — the practical warnings, the soft loyalty, the family politics. You can see how emigration didn’t sever ties; it stretched them.

And somewhere in that stretch — between Fort Warren and Waterford — a whole world of Irish experience unfolds.

Thank you for reading and supporting Irish Roots Heritage Plus.

This is just the first half of the story — a brother’s warning sent across the sea. In our next letter issue, we read his reply to Owen. The grief softens into caution, and what remains is a quiet promise: that no one should make the journey alone. The tone shifts. The worry lingers. And still — the love burns on.

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