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DOCUMENT SOURCE:

M an Li} rary ~ U0. , PerKeley ~

ee ———————-———-——— Ct —————— —————
Be CS eg uy NE J OR I vr

 
TALES

COTTAGERS,

ACCOMODATED TO THE PRESENT CONDI

OF -TRE

IRISH PEASANTRY

»
®

 

Biv MARY LEADBETTER,
|

AND

ELIZABETH SHAKLETON
Ee  ——

TB sy

* Let not Ambition mock their usefy] toil,
“ Their homely Joys,

and destiny obscure ;
* Nor gra

ndeur hear, with a disdainful smile,

“ The short but simple annals of the Poor.”

DUBL IN:
Printed by James Cumming & Co. Hiberinia Dress Office,
FOR 30HN cumming,

LOWER ORMOND QUAY;
AND GALE, CURTIS,

& FENNER, PATERNOSTER ROY,

LONDON,

Sr ———

1814.

 
. Zales for Tottagers,

3
ste
tr

PERSEVERANCE,

Peter Doran was left a widower, with three
sons, Morgan, Billy and Stephen. Peter had
‘always been an honest industrious man, and got
~ -good business in his trade of a carpenter ; he
brought his- eldest son up to the business, and goon
found that he was remarkably quick at learning it.
Morgan invented several little improvements in
the manner of working, that his father had never
thought of. He even attempted to make new tools,
and amused himself after his day’s work, in making
little play-things of various kinds; but he never
completed any thing he began, .as he grew tired
of them before they were finished, and sometimes
when they were scarcely formed. His little work-
shop was strewed over with handles of saws, skrle-

>

‘tons of ships, arms of dolls, and tables and chairs,
with one or two legs. Tis father desired him not

A
T8RE7S

 
a

10 begin any thing clse, till these were finished ;
but Morgan said he was tired of them; some of
them would do well encugh as they were, and as
-to the rest, he never could finish them, for he
had tried long enough. Peter thought in his own
mind, that a man of no great genius would suc-
ceed better by staying at one thing till it was
finished, then a more:clever person, who wes so
soon tired of g little trouble. As to Billy, his fa-
ther thought him so stupid, that he could never
be a good carpenter ; he therefore placed him as
ander gardener-to Mr. Roberts. Stephen was at
this time going to school, and showed quite as
good abilities as Morgan did at his age. They
were thus situated when their father died, and left
‘his property to be equally divided among his three
sons. Morgan was now his own master, and be-
ing looked up to by his acquaintance, he conceived
a high opinion of himself: He often said to his
neighbour, . Jem Flemniing, that he hoped to be
the first cabinet-maker in Dublin, if some lucky
chance should only introduce him to the quality.
Jem advised him to have more dependence on his
own industry than the kindness of the quality.
« Industry !” says Morgan, < sure onc lucky hit
of my hammer, or cut of my saw, or thought of
my head, might make my fortune; while I might
slave myself among the people in the country,
for three score years, and be hard enough set to
et a coffin for myself after.” ¢ Well, well,” says
Jem,. ¢ you know best to be sure, as, you have
parts by nature, as I’m told, and are a tradesman

born besides, but to the best of my observation,
1 always remarked, that for one man that gets
bread by luck, a thousand succeed by industry;
and you know we can command our own labour,

but we cannot command our luck, and may waste
g for it, than it

more time looking forit, or waiting
is often worth after.”

¢ But,” says Morgan,

3

te
: suppose no great good fortune should come
poten us, vet one head is worth a great man
» ct : y
ands, and I hope you have no mean opin; ‘
my head-piece,” < DIll tell you,” says J WE
: ed 11 you,” says Jem, «a
Plecs of my mind, that when a man is young I
always like to see his head and hands vo too the :
1t 1s time enough for him to depend - th Be ton
of others, when heh i a
» When he has had success i i
Folens. L in his business.”
None listened to Jem, but he could not oe
onciled to settle in the country, at low wae
and coarse work, after he had civen w on
high thoughts of Dublin. Jem Phone Sg
: Ao . 1 Flemming ks
has great regard for Peter Doran: he also v i
ed the children well on Cy
ell, and
them good advice. He 0 ao % ohm Fave
pom ad 2 ent some of his
ite in, and had seen wl i
: 1at pains trades
0 in ul ps radesmen
ake, to give their work i i
which, it won’t scll 2 S00 Suish, Without
oy ) : 1't scll there. Now he had alwa 'S
erved, that however well Morgan beg his
work, he never took time to give it a fini a n
after his father’s d FE Ranh, Soon
ather’s death, Morgan had }
ployed to work by the job, at a newl 1 eb ip
ot fir ert y ¥ Ouilt house :
first he was very industrious, but as soon as he
. «3 -

+

had got ali

: a little money, he th i

pa B01 3 haste pie os thought he might amuse

il ay S, god after this idle fit, he
1e work with such an ill incline:

: : an ill inclinati
oe iy not care how it was done, In fact oo
1 ¢ business so carelessly and sliohtiv I hl
master at last said he Lh mat his
Fh aid he would have no more of his
ork. 1s determined Morgan to wo to Dublin:
where he fancied strenoth was a,
od ited, strong as not so much coi-
Rs a, os Sut before he left the country,

otephen apprentice to

biz Step } e to a he Sil

ALL ho required a very small fee “en

Zz S 1 § 3] . > § ¥ A . > : :

pies Nan i a handsome young fellow, aud
ad a civil and clever manner of snes lk; ie:

ot long till he oot into v o ny

g eligh: te 8 3 Ty rood work, and was

SHWCE with Ws situation, that he offered 10

. get Stepher ’ I
get Stephen a good place i Dublin, if he coi 'd
ys: 1 2 €OIL,

AY

 
4

prevail on his master to give up his indentures.
Stephen thought it most prudent to ask Jem Flem-
ming’s advice, before he came to any conclu-
sion.
Jem only answered, that “a rolling stone
gathers no moss,” that ¢ a bird in the hand is
worth two in the bush,” and that ¢ when one is
well, it is better to let well alone.” Indeed though
Stephen was a young lad, he did not like chang-
ing often, and he was of Jem’s mind, when he ad-
vised him to wait till Morgan was settled in busi-
ness for himself, and his own time was served,
before he should accept of his brother’s offer.
Morgan found Dublin the place to his mind, for
when he had disobliged one master-carperter, he
told a plausible story to another, and was hired;
and when he was tired of working, he found plenty
of company who were willing to be idle with him.
One day he walked out into the country, then
went to the play; another day he saw curious
sights, and then regaled himself at a porter-house :
and when all his money was run out, he returned
to his work. But this kind of changeable life is
not calculated to make a man fond of work, or of
any kind of steady, sober conduct. It also in-
jured his health, which had formerly been good,
when his meals and his work came in due course.
Employment is not considered as toil to a regu-
lar working man, who always goes about it with
cheerfulness, but to Morgan, the time spent at
his work seemed very wearisome, he returned to
it with dislike, and at last thought any means of
making money preferable to labour: He therefore
had recourse to the gaming table and to the lottery.
Very fortunately for Morgan, in one of his first
trials in the game of chance, he lost almost the
whole of his money. This shock forced him to
reflect on his present and past situation. He
thought again of his native place, where he re-

5

membered, he had once been happier at work than
he now felt amidst his jovial companions. For-
merly, if’ he was afflicted or disappointed, he met
with the sympathy and advice of his relations, and
o his trusty friend Jem Flemming; while in the
1 2 - i + *
n y of the city, no one seemed to have leisure
o listen to his complaints, and still less to assist
him. A
As variety was ; agreeable i
ba a hi was always agreeable to Morgan, so
ound no difficulty in leaving his favourit
haunts. Humbled by hi I
a . umbled by his want of success, he lis-
Jone to advice; and when Jem Flemming told
= .~ - . F Oo £4
1m that drinking was the ruin of every man who
bh actised it, Morgan swore he would not taste
ignat for a year, but be a pattern of sobriety to
iis younger brothers. He thought if he was mar
; , . =i < < S14 =>
ried, it would be a great means of settling him,
; g him
oad he courted a great many pretty girls, for the
ik 2 a fresh beauty made him quite forget the
as . 1 Ro : ht MC = :
Ss ired of waiting so long for an event, which
e had set his heart on, he resolved to leave it all
to fortune, and marr; th h
ne, oe marry the very first pretty girl he
met: accordingly he was married in two days

iaVS.
~

after this resolution, to a girl who had never seen

him wh i de i
Bi hon ke ade it. He found it very pleasant
arried : not all the charms of Dublin, he

Oo : Ww # : :
‘said, could equal the pleasure of a man sitting at

home by his fire-side, with a little wife of his cwn.
a watked every day, an d took delight in making
e proper provision for his family. It was a fine
mrineg of all kinds was cheap and plenti-
a Jf a
) ling for his family was rather
a pleasure than a toil, and he wondered why peo-
ple talked of the difficulties of life; for his ot
if’ the labours of the day wearied or exhausted Ly
Je sojtes of his wife were a sufficient recompense
n the evening.
drawn home, the ih yey a
ginning of the clamp was built

 
6

‘up regularly enough; but before it was finished,
Morgan thought there was no occasion to be so
exact, so he threw up the sods carelessly, and over
them as carelessly threw a little straw. Jem was
walking by, and told Morgan it was a pity not to
secure such a “pretty dry handful of turf” better
from the hardships of the weather. Morgan was
tired of the job, and persuaded himself thathis clamp
was proof against all weathers. The potatoes were
dug and put into the pit, but the pit was too
slightly covered, in Jem’s opinion, to keep out
the frost; the oatmeal was brought home, and
carelessly thrown into a chest. Morgan now sat
down at his ease, and remarked to his wife, that
« the old people made a great bother about every
thing they did, but may be his share would be as
good after all.”

Let us now leave Morgan to cnjoy his se-
curity, and turn our attention to Billy and Ste-
phen. Billy had very little ingenuity, and no as-
piring thoughts, but was quite content to be an
under-gardener all the days of his life.

He had the good sense to know, that bis talents
did not qualify him for the higher stations of life ;
but it is not intended by this example to quench
the ardour for advancement, which may be enter-
tained by the poor as well as the rich. The ex-
ertions for this purpose must be guided by pru-
dence, and maintained with steadiness, or they
cannot be crowned with success. Morgan, for
want of perseverance, never completed any thing,
and had always to begin anew; while Billy's stea~
dy industry enabled him to take a house and gar-
den, and to bring home a wife to a neat well-‘ur-
nished dwelling. ~ The long habit of working in a
well managed garden, under the direction of a
skilful gardener, had given him a complete know-
ledge of the culture of vegetables and fruit. He
was both dexterous in the use of his tools, and well

~
é

acquainted with the proper seasons for every sort
of work. The little garden at the back of his
house, was such a pattern of neatness and econo-
my, that it would please the most scrupulous ob-
server. The crops, all coming in succession,
constantly provided his family with wholesome and
nourishing food; and in summer, he sold a great
deal of his vegetables... With his own hands he
built a wall round his little garden; at first, he
intended to make only a short wall at one side, as:
he did not suppose that a poor man, who had but
an hour to spave every day, could ever be at the
expence or trouble of surrounding his garden with.
a wall; bat he was surprised how soon the first
side was done, and was therefore encouraged to pro--
ceed, till his garden was entirely surrounded : this
Is one instarice among many, what great works may
be performed by patient industry and persever--
ance ; this was a great work, considering Billy's
means. When the wall was built, it was the ad-
miration of the whole neighbourhood, and his
master was so much pleased with it, that ke al--
lowed him to furnish it with fruit-trees out of his
own garden, some of which Billy himself had as-
sisted to graft; and in the winter nights he used
to employ himself making nets to cover both his:
own and his master’s fruit trees.. Billy did not
aim at much variety of occupation, but he excelled
in all that belonged to gardening. He could mend.
the hot-bed frame, and had pieces of glass and a.
little putty, ready to mend the glasses when bro-
ken; he had his hammer and nails, and bits of
cloth for nailing up his trees, all in regular order;
and when any one asked him how he came to be so
clever, he used to say “practice makes perfect,”
and “use is second nature.” The old gardener
died, and his place was offered to Billy, but he-
had such a low opinion of his own abilities, that he
would only undertake the business on trial, till a.

 
better gardener could be engaged. However, it
was soon found that Billy equalled his predecessor
in cleverness, and exceeded him in. diligence.
Nor was he less exemplary in his domestic and reli-

sious practices, than in those of his business. He
had a steady affection for his wife and children,
and constantly attended his place of worship,
where he went with a strong desire to be im-
proved, and where he devoted himself so entirely
to that good end, that he did not fail to be the
better of it.
According to Jem Flemming’s advice, Stephen
corved out his time to the hedge-carpenter ; though
the frequent trials which he made of his own abili=
ties convinced him, that he could do neater work
than making cow-bails and field-gates. One day,
as he was leaning over the plane, while he was
smoothing a dresser for Billy’s wife, a thought
«truck him, that he might at some time become a
house carpenter ; but his own steady good sense,
together with the observation he made on his bro-
ther Morgan’s faults, and consequent disappoint-
ments, made him resolve, rather to remain a
hedge-carpenter all the days of his life, than seek
for promotion by any means but his own merit and
industry. Jem Flemming saw the dresser he
made for Billy’s wife; he thought it so well put
together, and so neatly finished, that he begged
of Stephen to make him a table: he did so, and
all the neighbours that came to look at it, declared,
that the first tradesman in Ireland need not be
ashamed to put such work out of his hands. Ste-
phen was encouraged, and made chairs to sell at
fairs, or at his brother's house, where he lived.
He now undertook many other kinds of work, but
would not engage in any, without having reason
to believe he was able to complete it. It was not
long till he was reputed as good a house-carpen-
ter as any in the neighbourhood. No persuasion

9

of Lils brother chips could prevail with him to do
ae work slightly, for he considered such conduct
C ishonest, aud that it would ruin his character
y : SY > - :
oe that Stephen was established in business, and
ad saved a little money, he began to think of mar-
rying: he had long remarked the industry and
rood con 0oy S ton; hi 1
g o uct of Peggy Stapleton; his attention had
en ( irected to this worthy young woman b
- r 1 y > ;
t 3; gratitude which she showed to Mrs. Roberts
; 10se care of her father, during a severe lines,
rad greatly forwarded his recove P d
Bills what token of grat hone oy skal
dy 2 oken of gratitude she should present to
> rs. Roberts. He remembered a little purse
t ot he had seen with Miss Lucy, which she
2 d him was made in the same manner as the nets
» uich he made for the trees. Billy’s wife knew
; at Peggy hada great deal to do in the family art
cared the work would be tedious; but Peco > sail
she would work a littl i rh pe
i a little at it every night, whicl
was the time she kni (1 Ny
5 he un 1e knit stockings; and she often
i dered how soon they were finished. In the
hes of % ul the purse was completed,
: received by Mrs. Roberts :
: 3 . s, at once as a token
of grade, and as a proof of persevering indus-
try, w rich needs never be deterred from attempt-
ing any thing that can be ish \ :
ing an, g accomplished. Stephen
ad observed, that the whole of Peggy’s conduct
ato be ’ : gg :
Tata piece. She never appeared in a hurry or
nfhton, yet was always employed; and her
goo in eon Bd so constant and regular,
22 3 1S ¥en had it in her power to be kind and
£ ane e to the sick and distressed. There was
. : 4 : ; 4 : 2 3 Can
Boi So pretty girl, that Stephen admired a
8 foe ; but her temper was so uneven, that it
y a g ways uncertain how she would receive him
$ C a domestic affairs were so irrecularly ia
nag er ® hoald find
B ge ) that he never knew whether he should find
cr extremely busy, or not find he g
! Vs 1 nd her atall. O
Sundays she was dressed so fine, that tion
ress , that a common.
ib mmon

 
tradesman was afraid to speak to her, and on
working days she was often so dirty, that Stephen
forgot she was beautiful.

Now as Stephen was a very sensible young man,
and knew how to reason on what would probably
make him really happy, he put the changeable
Susan entirely out of jis mind, and placed his
affections on the amiable steady Peggy, who al-
ways received him with courtesy and modesty,
and who could ask him every day of the week to
sit down by a neat fire-side.

One day that her father and Stephen were in
the cabbin by themselves, Stephen asked the old
man, how his daughter happened to be so clever,
when she had no mother to direct her. All the
regulation,” said he, ¢ that ever I made for her
was, that she should remain at one thing till she
had finished it to my liking. To be sure, you
may say 1 was no great judge; but any judge at
all was better than to leave her to herself: there
is nothing children are so fond of, as to run from
one thing to another; to play a little, spin a little,
and knit a little; to begin one thing and then
begin another ; but I allowed none of that work.
I would never be easy, nor let Peggy have peace
or rest, till she had finished what she was doing
to the very best of my knowledge, and so she
got .a fashion of exactness that never left her, and
che soon went beyond any thing I could tell her:
che white-washes the house with her own hands,
and cleans the windows when myself thinks they
are clean encugh ; and every thing else the same
way, so that I am very saucy about the look of a

cabbin.” Stephen was not long till he proposed
marriage to Peggy, and he was soon accepted, for
he was in very good repute, both with old and
young.

Having now seen Billy and Stephen married,
and settled comfortably with their wives, let us

i

ug! forget to take another view of peor Morgan
v. tom Pp left at the approach of winter. The :
pains of November fell heavy on his turf, and made
> LPs] ?
im sorely repent. that he had not employed
gr cater care In securing his clamp. The frost of
ecember was not long in making its way thr
the thin and loose earth which was 7 a
4. lo } carelessly
hrown over his potatoes. The oatmeal being
opsely packed, soon swarmed with mites; and the
mice found their way thr in t
rough a hole h
He had swor ink ; i She
n not to drink any i
® ot to drink any strong liquor for
2 Sh 24 Apring ils time he exerted oie
e industrious, but when it wa ire
to his old habas ky 9 Higemd
i ss. Lhe bad use |
0 exc 1e made
of fs money pe is wife out of temper ; this added
s dislike of heme, and 1 i
] , and he became still
: 4 of hon ; still more
ddicted to di inking; the bad state of their winter's -

yrovision ms 's sti
I ade matters still worse. When his

bs 3 ghd was bs, he was so proud it was a boy
at he was in better hw i i #
1at he w mour with 1 |
hah va umself and
r a short. ti i
en ort Nig but the attention
y day, and the loss of rest by ni
ey | 18g, an > los & night
Joon age him weary of this part of Sora
Tie also, or he had so indulged himse
from one thing to

3d
it

If in passi
assine
joni ane Hi another the moment he Vos
ed it, that he could not endure any perma
inconvenience, nor could he bring hi If
to persevere in pursuing those painful i) SR
J or trouble-
some paths which lead :
ead us at last to pl
Soe g pleasure and
p Spase, 2 hebeoamg weary of family affairs, so
red of daily labours, :
; 's, and when he found
he hi going back in the world, instead of doub
s diligence, 1 1 .
g e, he began to think
Ais ¢ { 1k what nes
Sve: 3 = might prove more successiul He
Wong 1 0 Opening little shop, and selling such
g are chiefly in dem: S
md amongst ti
Wh : ] < d ngst tne
aan, J Doonle. | In this he expected to have both
¢ and profit, instead ling
y ead of OT ey
gE TT plodding for ever
g Ide worked hard for some time

 
12

to collect money enough to accomplish this darling
speculation. He was busy at after hours in fur-
nishing the little shop with shelves and a counter ;
his wife recovered her health and her good hu-
mour, the neighbours said he was improved, and
Morgan was again happy. The little shop suc-
ceeded very well for a while; both Morgan and
the customers were gratified with the novelty.
Unfortunately his aspiring genius suggested to
him, that «having done so well in a small shop,
how much better shall I succeed in a greater.”
Accordingly, he lays out the money, which ought
to have gone towards keeping up his stock in the
little shop, to the purchase of a new building.
The walls rise: but the little shop is not re-
stocked. The receipts of the till go to pay the
masons and workmen. The pond whose supply
fails, must run dry. On Saturday nicht the till
is found insufficient to pay the men; the building
cannot proceed : and now looking more like a
ruin than a new building, it stands a monument
of disappointed folly, of wrong calculation, and
the want of persevering industry. The little shop
was so much injured by Morgan attending more
to his workmen than to his customers, and by his
being no longer able to purchase an assortment
of goods, that he was obliged to drop that fa-
vourite business, and again to look out for work
but the lounging habits he contracted, rendered
him a very lazy workman. His wife was dis-
couraged from making any exertions, as one of
his freaks, she thought, would overturn all she
could do, and she had little economy, for one
of his carousing nights would waste more, she
said, than she could save in a week. However,
Morgan’s misconduct was no excuse for Mary’s
idleness or want of economy, for a truly good
wife will do her duty in defiance of all impedi-
ments, and her example is often known to re-

15

form the husband, but we must say that M:
met with great discouragements, and we h a
fore, less to blame for her neglect. Mor, daa
tempted to teach his children many Pp brs
his patience was always worn out before the h vs
made any proficiency, and he turned th a
confirmed dunces. a
Finding 1 oui .
spp, Hothing prospered with him, he
e was born to be unluck
would therefore make no farther exert ,
leave himself and his family to chance The ot
perate notion tormented his mind tl ns
intended to take shelter under it He ve he
turally tender hearted, and the sight of his fo i
in distress distracted him. His other h d aly
him proper notions of honesty, and all th En
tues which are the offspring of good es.
but his ideas and his principles were Re
: d
His ¢o 9)
had no 1a re
Drinking, and ole
2, artful men

fused. Despair tormented him one hour
whiskey stupified him the next toon
thers, and his friend Jem. ha
influence over him. :
were the associates, who gs

a ( ained his ear and in-
enced his conduct. Some of these had no Whip

ple to take what was not their own : i
rl Mags misery and a
i gn. en Moros .
hel, Popo he shuddered at psa
rp Ari up in his face at the affront which
hi son of the honest Peter Doran
4 indi and high sense of honour
Tod be gs ho with horror from such a deed
Fa oy alf muddled with whiskey : co.
oS Tome [hips of his father’s advice, rather
ayes > rob, arose in his bewildered imagi-
Gon hie whiskey got the better of his
Ft : ses 3 and his associates found it n
J diicuit to swear him to their cause; nor aid

 
they lose time till they hurried him away to the
destined place, and cut down a large and valuable
tree, of which theygave him more than his share,
in order to tempt him to be again of their party.
‘When Morgan recovered from his intoxication,
and reflected on what he had done, he cursed the
hour of his existence: he was not hardened in
ailt ; and he at first determined never to suffer
himself to be deluded again ; but it has been often
said, and as often proved, that one false step leads
to another and another : the practice of vice
weakens the principle of good, and we find it
more and more difficult to resist temptation.
When Morgan spent the money which he made
by his share of the stolen timber, he was strongly
tempted to try his fortune in this way once more,
after which he thought he never should be guilty
of it again. Accordingly he and one of his asso-
ciates cut down two trees, and each of them con-
veyed one to his own dwelling. Morgan deter-
mined to bury his for some time, till the search
was over; but as he did every thing in a careless
slovenly manner, he only threw some rubbish
and shavings over the tree. It was not long be-
fore Mr. Roberts missed his timber, and began the
search, accompanied by his trusty servant Billy ;
they searched many houses before they came to
Morgan’s ; which Mr. Roberts said he might pass
by; but Billy said ¢ it would give offence to the
other neighbours, if any cabbin was missed; so
they resolved to search it for form’s sake: what
was their astonishment when they readily found
the tree in Morgan's garden. Billy was struck
dumb, and when Morgan was called out, his pale
countenance betrayed him even before he openly
confessed it, which his terror and despair induced
him to do. (Oh, Morgan, Morgan I” was all
Billy could say. Mr. Roberts kept him confined
till a guard was provided to carry him to, gaol,

15

~ . ii
Serhen was at this time recovering from a slow
ever, and hearing a confused noise going past hi
door, he sent a little boy to know the meanin of
it, who soon brought him the dreadful Hm
a cold damp came over his weakly frame: or
Tome time he was unable to speak; but when he
hand gy for his grief and shame, he ex
claimed, as it for this : :

( our good father k
us out : ] Vy
i gi Wii company, gave us good books to ro
: aug 3 us right notions of honesty! Oh what
2 we The Deane beggar may despise the
amily of Doran. ‘e never can li
] an lift up our he
: ad
agen) one vid unfortunate brother, what must hy
eel! he that has been the 3 :
at he e cause of a ISQT
and the misery of his family! how ae Wh Sik
: ! ie dow
a mg ! 7h ob what thoughts must meet
‘nen he wakens | his slee i i
vhen he I can give | ‘es
for in his dr lo o) ay
Ireams he will s S ]
brs his dy 2 1 sce gaolers, and Judges,

b y gmen, and if my poor father appears t
1m, how must his soul be racked I” Aft ile

vent to his grief, he fell hE

YoHt o 8 » he fell back in his bed, and

3 to sleep, but he was only ruminating
1s brother’s misery, and tl i Se

his | Sh Ys d the disgrace of his

y. Iy brother Morgan, my eld

ther turned robber! oh Soni Jo om i
: er! oh, st rave, it can’

true—yet I was sitting up when I he rd i he

a I ard it—1it 1s
24 3 ho 1s actually in prison—and the

Jes Ne ! the Tens is before him! Oh
¢ 1ave in the world co i Ke

uld save his li
but the law, when I think of the law. I of

up—mnor can he wish hi oo his 1

Tp & e wish himself to surviy

ation. e was a fine spirited lad, and

gentleman had not as honourable J a

an | ¢ able -notions r
bent e ; he nox

8 od abilities ; but this is all caused by his etti »

tired of his proper business,

ng Ir
on 9 I o '

foo Siphon in his trouble, but he hid his face
fron: 4 Ap worthy old man. Jem comforted him
| tm all this might prove good for Morgan

fe—
him
e his repu-

 
in the end. He then enumerated Morgan's flood
qualities, and made many excuses for bs pi
duct, which drew tears from the sick man’s e es.
Jem was not the man to crush those who bere oe:
When Billy came to sce Stephen, he var a :
recovered from his passion of grief, and wishec
for Billy to intercede with his master not = pro-
secute Morgan; but Billy declared he eon d Ao
look his master in the face, and that he : tC 1
graded before the lowest servant in the Suse
No other way could be thought of, but for 2 y
to tell Miss Lucy his grief, when he next SAW i
in the garden; Billy often reared nice fiw ind
shrubs for her, and she consulted him all t oS
round what should be done with her lig gd on
Not many days after aly, Loy came to Billy, anc
ad conversation as follows :
ca dng Billy, the hollyhock you gave me is dead,
1 believe, what shall I do with it ? :
Billy. If it be dead, Miss Lucy, yoz i
make 1t alive; but if it be only weak and sickly,

5

ill it for you.
: mat wid] could cure my flowers as well

as you, 1 wonder how you do it! Could you cure
our child if it was sick? vl
Billy. No, Miss, nor can I cure By when
'm in trouble, and I'm in great trouble now.
: Rec What ails you, Billy? May be Mamma
help you. :
iy Pon Miss, it is my heart that aches fox
Pp M an,
Pi iy papa says heis very sorry that your
¥ er should be in gaol. :
ai oly But I’m afraid that he will never come
out, and the thoughts of it makes my flesh creep
ay and night. :
pi “Why, what could be done to him?
Billy. "Some say he'll be banged.

17

Lucy. Oh shocking! sure it would be dreadful
to think of your brother being hanged.

Billy, 1t’s the torment of my life. 1 wonder
could you help to get him off?

Lucy. Tell me what I can do, and I will run
this very minute about it.

Billy. My blessings be with you, for an angel
of comfort! = Will you tell your Papa, that Ste-
phen and I will bail him out, if he’ll not be
brought to trial,

Lucy flew away to her Papa and brought him
to speak to poor Billy, who panted and blushed
when he saw his master approaching. « Well,
Billy,” said Mr. Roberts, “in consideration of
you and your good brother, and your father, if
he should be released from gaol, I will take your
bail for Morgan, and I wish he may prove deserv-
ing of your goodness.” Billy’s joy was too great
to express, but in the bottom of his heart he bles
sed little Lucy and her father, and thanked Pro-
vidence, that he had such good people to deal with,
Stephen’s delight at his brother's escape from the
danger of an ignominious death, and at his being
reclaimed by this sad experience, exceeded all
bounds. A variety of projects came across his
mind, how he might requite this good family, but

the improbability of their ever being in want of

his assistance, baffled his invention: at last it oc-
curred to him, that he might make a curious ca-
binet, and present it to Miss Lucy, as a token of
his gratiude, and, if possible, that it should be su-
perior to any thing of the kind that had ever
appeared in the neighbourhood, because, he con-
sidered, that an uncommon obligation ought to
be requited with an uncommon token of gratitude.
His wife encouraged him in this plan, and the
more so, because she remembered that her net
purse had been as kindly accepted by Mrs. Ro-
berts, as if she had given it to one of her own

 
18

rank. Stephen bought a piece of mahogany,
and spared no pains in making every part of the
little cabinet as complete as he possibly could, and
the morning after it was finished, he put on his
best coat, carried it up to the great house, and in-
quired for Miss Lucy. She came running to him,
and received the cabinet with almost as much joy
as Stephen felt in presenting it to her. Stephen
wished it was better for her sake. Lucy declared
that she had never seen any thing in Dublin that
she admired so much. You are pleased to say so,
Miss. * Yes, and think so too,” said Lucy. I'm
sure you do,” replied he, “but I am not so vain
as to think, a common carpenter could give this
kind of work a proper finish. AllI wish, is to
shew my gratitude in the best manner I am able.”
Lucy called her father and mother to leok at the
cabinet; Stephen then shewed them all the private
drawers he had ingeniously contrived. ¢ Oh dear,”
exclaimed Lucy, ¢ these little drawers are just
what I was wanting to put up my shells and little
rarities in, and sec Mama, how curiously they are
ornamented and inlaid.” Mr. and Mrs. Roberts
admired the workmanship, and still more the mo-
tive which had prompted so much invention. All
the company who came to the house, for scime time
after, were entertained with a sight of this little
piece of furniture, which Lucy soon occupied with
her nice things, and did not fail to make it shine,
inside and outside, with oiling and rubbing. Ste-
phen’s reputation for a neat workman, gained
ground, and he was respected as a virtuous and
amiable character: he had always as much work
as he could do, and was obliged to employ jour-
neymen, with whom he had many arguments con-
cerning the necessity of great exactness in work.
« What good is there,” they would say, © in pleas-
ing the fancies of rich people ; if they become
used to rough work, they will like it just as well.”

19

But Stephan sisted, it was as easy to do work
pea 5 when a man was used to it, as to disgrace
pis » by putting an ill finished thing out of his
Zon S. Complete work also wears the bes
ne extreme finish which is now given to every ar-
Ja oo more People to be employed, than if
: were satisfied with clumsi i

© qu: : msiness a -
periecon) “surely,” said he, ¢ my poor on
ours will join me, when I sg that the more
money the rich pay to the poor oe L A % i
a y eter, but we

re pet to get their money without givin
vem value. When I see my little children or 5
ing up, I am rejoiced that there are so man Si
mvented for us to earn ony bread ; and Ua “a
0S . t] . id
pose ue bad Plenty of food for nothing, A

ec we should be if were obliged i

1 ed to be id]

€ f o :
a 3 what danger we should be of falling into
Miche nase Stephen’s neighbours thought he
nfimed nimself too much to work, and said that

t, and

since he wa i ious 1
as so ingenious, he might afford himself

2 ids ge now Sd then, which he could soon
clrieve by his quickness and dexter
by ] and dexterity; but St
phen said if he was idle, h Es
1s » he would get oyt
Fraction and have to learn over again what he a
carned ; he added, that he had

na] an example, he
care ‘hict i s
are to mention, which had given him gq

ug apelin idleness, and that it was his be
lat lew young people wer inst its
Salyers tendency, P Sprof sgatant i
oor Morgan’
spent in wah hn ly ody
prison, ost seriously did he r
of all his miscond y 3 heen:
uct; he thought if
at liberty, he would tal BN rehs vis
uld take a better course
: e a bette rse, but the
ul 5 2 ong agaist him, that he Jorpitrad
: 8 1€ss than transportation: his i
do ung loss tha on; his surprise
J y Jr ey great, when his good Brot
ly ce berate him. He felt that
bil : Cr ere w
> asp Sea on his character, which he Tons
‘d only be effaced by some notable instance of

 
20

honesty ; he longed for Miss Roberts to drop a
bank note, which he might find and restore to her,
or for any other great proof of his honesty; but
his brothers told hin that along course of good
conduct alone would wipe away all remembrance
of his disgrace. The very mention of a ¢ long
course,” deterred Morgan from the undertaking.
¢« 1 must first,” thought he, ¢ experience deep
and cruel disgrace, and then I must pine away
year after year, only to gain one degree of repu-
tation after another. Why was I not banished
from that country, where I shall never be respect-
ed, and where I have no opportunity of perform-
ine one famous action, which might throw all my
bad deeds in the shade.” He was for some time
in hopes that be might by chance suddenly re-
trieve his character; but being disappointed, and
finding himself despised by respectable people,
Le had again recourse to the ale-house to drown
his sorrow, and to banish from his mind the re-
membrance of a helpless family of children, who
were growing up in ignorance and idleness. THis
constitution was ruined by drinking, and his heart
was broken by the torments it endured, so that
he did not live many months after his release from
prisen. His wife paid his debts by the sale of his
little tenement, and returned to her father’s with
one daughter. Stephen took charge of two of the
boys, and Billy of the third. Although labouring
under so many disadvantages, yet their good un-
cles made industrious men of them: no idleness
nor stupidity was able to discourage them from
persevering in teaching them whatever seemed fit
for them to learn. They had found patience and
perseverance to succeed with themselves, and these
good qualities were equally successful in curing
the bad habits of their nephews. They did not
attempt to correct the faults of the children by
violent or passionate means, for it is observable

21

dd

thatthoseweedswhicharethemostfirmin theground

cannot be dislodged by a violent pull, which only

leaves productive roots behind, but

round and round, till you have oo all the
little fibres, and then the great plant is cathy
dislodged. It is not certain that this simile occur.
redto either of these brothers, but certain it is that
their experience had given them such a preference
for moderation and perseverance, that they prac-

<< S a.

 
CALCULATION.

: is brother
«I TELL you,” says Thady Quin on wig
Jack, * I am the eldest, and it J he wa
reason, that the eldest boy Bo s he does not
much more of his father’s goo 40 rs a present
please to make his brothers and Sisto : by SE
of ; and more than that, duck, RD out; and
ed every thing that came In oh ey
you all the time were nothing is : ; that Jack ?”
¢ I can’t deny,” ans . - a gentleman
always a lazy fellow, setting " for : gong er
and for the Same aa I ) wu Ae,
oor father told both y reward for fn
od should have the ar, . nd ple
industry, and then, says he, 3 hie
oN many a neighbour pouty him oY
the same, and some advised him i Gis ’ ;
that we might have it in black anc Wh Lan
poor father always said, he kos es i the
mind his word as well as if all the lawy

iting, and stamping, and sigi-
kingdom were writing, and stamping,
% SS «da :

- disputes which would otherwise ensue,

4

23

ing, and sealing it; little he thought that he would
not be three days under the ground before his
words were all forgot.” « How mighty tender
you are Jack,” says Thady, « PJ] lay the worth
of my new striped waistcoat that you would not be
quite so exact about you poor father’s word, if jt
was to me he said he'd leave the farm, But it does
not signify talking, the farm is mine, and the gar-

en is mine, and the house and furniture are mine,
and I'll have them all, or die fighting for them.
You know, Jack, that my father’s loving you bet-
ter than me, did not make you a better boxer, for
I know as well as that I'm standing on my own
ground this present minute, that the law would
give me all I want, yet I would not be bothered

oing to law, nor waiting such a plaguy long time
Bor this, that, and t'other to be sworn and prov-
ed.” Jack joined with his brother in despising the
law, but begged of him to have patience till he
brought a couple of witnesses to all his father’s
declarations of his wil] accordingly Jack brought
two young men, who swore all he said was true.
Thady said he would box Jack and all the witnes-
ses he could bring, if they said another word, so
they were silent ; but Jack. continued his protesta-
tion of taking possession of the farm and house -
their words grew hotter and higher, and a boxin
match ensued, which completely overcame Jack,
who while he lay under the threats and lifted arms
of his brother, resigned all pretensions to the pos-
sessions of his father, The respectable neighbours
well knew that it was old Tom Quin’s intention
that Jack, who had been a very dutiful and indus-
trious son, should inherit the chief part of his
property ; it was also true, that the landlord had
entreated of him to make a» will, to prevent the
Now Tom
had become rich by scraping and saving, he did
I

8 not know a letter or a figure, nor looked before

 
2%

hand, nor calculated what he could afford to
spend : his plan was to spend as little as possible,
either upon the house or farm, or on his family,
which caused many disputes between him and his
wife and children, which he generally ended, by
saying, “ you'll have it all when I am gone, and
what more do you want?” ¢ No, no,” he would
say, I'm too ’cute to let my pockets be picked while
I’m alive,” Tom thought no one was so ’cute as
himself, but sound policy would have taught him
to gain the affections of his children, by shewing
them kindness, and if he wished them to make a
good use of the riches he was scraping for them,
he ought to have expended something on their edu-
cation. Idis short sighted policy he called ’cute-
ness. The same ignorance and avarice which
made him think the education of his children an
useless expense, caused him to reject the advice of
his friends to make a will, which would also be at-
tended with a little expense; and there were so
many twists and turns in the law he said, every
one ought to keep clear of it: adding, that if no
one was more learned than he, it would save a
great deal of expense and trouble, and people
would have more time for enriching themselves,
who did not spend it in reading and writing ; for
which reason he never sent a child of his to school.
To be sure, Thady was a little wild, not to say
wicked, but he would soon sow all his wild oats,
and by allowing him but little money, there was
no doubt, he thought, but necessity would make
him work. The history of Thady, will soon
make it appear, whither his father’s calculation,
to save expense was a good one. Behold him now
in possession of a good farm, having a small rent
to pay, and no one to maintain except himself and
his mother, whom he kept to do.the drudgery;
this was her recompense for having always shewed
ereat partiality for him, and indulging him to the

5
=
oF
i

4 John for the present,

25

utmost of her power, unknown to his father Im
proper indulgence not only injures the child b ¢
causes the parent to lose that res, iin
which joined to natural affection, iays the SW
dation of that duty and willing obedience
which make the comfort and pleasure of both
parent and child. Daily and hourly the feebl
old Esther experienced the truth of ob
par Thady was as ignorant as his fithet,
despised learning as much, but was much nore
extravagant. John, being of a peaceable dij
position, and satisfied to be freed Proms ne
care and trouble belonging to the farm wis
ready to resign his right; but his neighbours
did not so calmly bear to see the quiet Ind
wronged by the grasping churlish TT had -
partly through motives of benevolence, and part)
to show their knowledoe of the ji, th y
urged John ‘to insist on his have’ of “i
Sn In order to pacify his friends, Jol
bs i) Moning i his brother’s pasture
y | 1e expected to find him looking
over his stock. John reckoned twelve cows and
Pa young calves, and coming up to his
rother, Le told him he was informed that
three of the cows and one calf was his
all the neighbours knew he had a ri tht o
his share of the cattle. = You are BOT 5 r "
lawyer, brother John,” says Thady, “ but Sell
se: who will have the best of the bari Pw Is
very sure,” says John, ¢ that you have the bon
of it, since you are in possession.” Thady ob
serving his brother’s extreme simplicity, Which
i og to his own cunning, Vassured him
bug shonld have no cause of dissatisfaction,
that he would leave it to the decisior
sonmie honest neichbours. Thi is
icighbours. This promise satisfied
i he engaged in the

 
26

. 3
i 1 rork for his brother's
mean time to do farming work fo
landlord, Mr. Brampton. q iid 2H 8
Polly Quin, their only sister, was ow
servant at Mr. Brampton’s. She resem "
John in industry, and bad more on Is
and Miss Brampton soon band olly Way
ve . id ¢ TT volce as
exact in obeying orders, that he a 3a
never heard in any disputes among the % : :
\ ric d lookec
she nded her clothes, an
and that she mer cx snd Jared
1 ifteen shillings a quarter, |
ater with fifteen s 0 A fon
Betty the house-maid did with a pone
Nor did it escape their observation, that Pe y
Ki
often assisted Betty to clean the Bodvborp her >
asiness was : n short,
; business was done.
after her own Ane shor,
Polly never neglected any thing, nor Sopred
in a hurry, while Betty required to oh "
reminded of her business, and was al “
weary and dirty, except when she en 0
the dance. James, a servant in the house, o on
anted h l at she
accompanied her, and gen ihe ih the
s clean and as lively at home,
was as clean anc % pe the
: olly did not fig
Jn the contrary, did not :
S302. nf she had no inclination for
> nor would her frugal plans admit oh foers,
: | ¥ i beautiful, or her
y e was not so Deau ’
and as her fac SR
entecl as Detty’s, so young
; re so gentec Jetty fhe: ; g
ha allowed her sometimes to walk by hers
self. Varnes was deeply in love with Betty, oa
, 3 . JC = iL o : iki :
paid her so much attention, that it was ! gp
= sorted they were married. An acquaintan 2
win asked him had he a Solon, Sniontion, of
ing +? James said he had no ade
rvinge her? James \
i 1. What! not made up your mind
0 oe nt. tad Do 1: “then vou’ll never
in six months, replied Paul: ye De
ok it up, I wish I was as sure o
me " an vou find her
as you. Why, where can jy
< . ’ .
tch?’ :
Bas Very few so handsome; but I don’t

he is the wife that would
know whether she 1s the wi

27

answer me. A man wants more than be
towards house-keeping, and
off. We ought to remember
it is for life, and we must
answer us in all respects,
Paul. 1 see, my boy, you
love, or you would not calcula
I thought you were in love,
James. 1 tell you, Paul, in private; and f
trust to your friendship you will not mention
it: I am indeed in love. "I love Betty with all
my heart: but I love her too well to marry
her, without considering whether she and I can
make each other Eappy. I wish her temper was
as sweet as her face, or that she was as clean and
lively at home as at the dance,
Paul.

That you could not expect. How
could any girl be cle;

an, doing dirty work, or be
merry, when she is slaved with hurry and hard-
ship.

James. So I thought once—but now I find

that a girl can be good tempered and clean at
harder work than Betty’s.

Many a conflict James h

auty
beauty itself wears
that when we marry,
think of what will

are not much in

te in this manner,
James,

ad in his mind, whether
he should tel] the beautiful B

etty “las tender

tale of love,” or keep silence a little longer. James

had fortunately been educated at a Lancostrian
School, and was so happy as to be supplied with
good and usefyl books, which enabled him to cz)
culate what actions and what mode of life would
tend most to make him happy. His own obser.
vation, and his reading, had showed him how
necessary sweetness of temper, cleanliness, jn.
dustry, and econon; yaretothehappiness of married
life: a poor man, he thought, ought to look for
all these qualities, and he believed the rich would
not be the worse {or them. His love for Betty
blinded James to many of her £ u'ts, but he caw
enough to prevent him from declaring his attache
B 2

 
28

ment to her. No person acquainted with this
tender passion, will be surprised that James found
it difficult to forbear from the expression of his
feelings, as he walked with Betty on a moon-light
night, delighted with her lively conversation, and
the sweetness of her voice when she sung; yet the
recollection of an unmannerly answer he had
heard her give; the smut which he had seen disfigure
her lovely face, the broken gown, dirty cap,
and abominable apron, all presented themselves
to his imagination, and restrained him from
opening his heart to her. Sometimes James
ventured to advise her against her smart answers
to her mistress, and the kind and gentle Miss
Brampton: but she always defended what she
alled her high spirit. When James and Betty
returned from their walk, they were sure to find
a clean fire-side and a cheerful reception from
the patient Polly, who never complained of
answering all the calls for Betty, during her
absence. Often James wished that the beauty
of Betty was joined to the good humour of
Polly; and when they were both absent, he
sometimes thought the good qualities of the one
over-balanced the beauty of the other. While
James's mind was suffering by this conflict,
Polly’s wages for the first quarter became due;
fifteen shillings seemed a great sum to her,
as old Quin never gave his children money, and
kept them as bare as possible. Polly wanted
a gown: she could buy a stuff’ one for six shil-
lin.., sic wanted an an, which would be one
and tenpence, and above all she wanted shoes,
which would cost six s lings, and when her old
¢hoes were repaired, she lad nothing to pay for the
making of her gown. Betty advised her to coax it
from her mother or brothers, or to borrow it from
the mistress: but Polly said she would rather wait

29

for next quarter than be in debt. She wished, she
said, that she could make the gown for herself:
Miss Brampton shewed her how to make it, cut
ito ut for her, and was delighted to have so willin
z . . > . 5 .
a pupil: and Polly made it with very little assis-
tance, alter working hours in the evening. James
was struck with the contrast between Poliy’s per-
severing industry, and the peevish idleness of Bet-
ty, who seemed equally at a loss how to get through
her work, and how to employ her leisure hours,
Miss Brampton was so pleased with Polly's clev-
erness about the gown, that she promised to teach
her to read; this was her greatest wish, she wes by
ho nieans discouraged at the tediousness of iearn-
i her letters and spelling the small words. With
such good inclination, it is not surprisicg that
Poily could soon read. Miss Brampion provided
her with profitable books, end Pol'y was mows
SY Peasants tr ia Fain ¥ :
un g el a companion for Jude, who delighted
in finding taat she did rot meke a bad use of nee
learning, to read foolish or immoral ballads, Lut
ki up pate mn reading moral stories, No jong.
1 33 van er NN i
2 ja ihe Suuday evenings appear tedious to
Polly, when she could read her Bible, or the pious
ives and happy deaths of good men and welnen,
for Miss Brampton had advised her to give
2 ey evening to such religious books
Miss dasesworth’s P nr Poloo 5
go Aine s Popular Tales and Castle Raci-
I t, aficrdec as much pleasure and instruction in
is: Br ampton’s kitchen, as they did to the mere
ve ined taste of the parlour. But nothing so
§; tO r vt Y, 3
msn hly convinced James that Betty was net
1€ TOY 2 ne 1 s T 3 "
: Sp omah to make him happy, as her always pre-
prety the face, Or any romping meeting, to
i , : Le, - : < 3
= Ing quietly, even with him, to whom she show
ed a decided preference

rp 2 Te
_ The fame of Polly's cleverness soen spread, and
it i well known, that she might get into Sir
+ohn Bloom's family, where the servants were left

 
30

to do as they pleased, and where she might
have six guineas a year, and the house-keeper’s
cast clothes. Her mother pressed her to accept of
this place, but Polly’s gratitude and good sense,
mduced her to reason as follows. ¢ You know,
mother, I am under great obligations to this fa-
mily, who have taught me every thing I know, and
who are well pleased with me, and where I never
sce any thing wrong, and sure it stands to reason,
that people who toek so much trouble with me,
would remember me better whenever I may be in
a place of my own, than gentry that take no trou-
ble in life ¢ about their servants, nor har lly know
the poor Wirdhon maid, even whilo she lives with
them. Besides, mother, it’s hard to say what
doings are in such a kitchen as Sir John’s, where
they say the servants doas they like. I am mighty
SOITY Mealy not to do as my relatiofs wish,
but I can’t think of leaving people that taught me
to read, and to work, that give me such “pretty
and pious books to vend, and “that take care of me
when I'm sick, asif I was a lady. No, I would
not deserve to be treated as I am, if I could be so
ungrateful” Poliy’s friends finding she was not to
be moved, left off soliciting her. Mis. Brampton
hearing of her gratitude, determined to raise her
wages to one pound per quarter, which Polly re-
ceived with the utmost gratitude. Instead of
thinking how much more finery she might wear,
she immediately planned to buy her mother a
cloak, which she thought she might do “against
the next winter, by leaving five shillings a quarter
in the hands of her mistress. Those Tadic es who
{ind it difficult to provide clothes for themselves
with sixty guineas a year, will be surprised to hear
that Polly was decent with sixty shillings, and was
content : tis true, she was obliged to sce a great
many shawls, and ribbons, and figured mains
delicate shoes, and stockings “with worked

31

clocks, and hats, and bonnets, without buying
them. Her caps were made of thick muslin; her
binders of the same, and hemmed by herself, ap-
pearing new every Hime they were wasl hed, looked
better ia fancy ribbons after a week’s wear. In-
deed, s Brampton gave her a thin cap and
of Ww ks she wore only, when it was her
turn to go out on Sunday. Her hat and cloak
were car efully locked up in her box, the moment
she took them off. Hor old petticoats were quilted
together for common wear. She knit all her stock-
ings with her own has ds, and her shoes were of
the strongest kind. We will not pretend to say
that Polly never wished for nice clothes when she
was going out; but never having indulged her
fancy, at the expense of propriety, she did not
find it very difficult to overcome her desires. Betty
often ridiculed her thrift, and made little of her
to James, who was always silent when this subject
was introduced, for bis reason told him Polly was
right; yet he could not but be charmed with the
elegance of Betty’s Sunday dresses, and with every
word that came out of her pretty mouth, when
she was in good humour. Betty was in the habit
of taking up her wages before they were due, with
oat considering whether sy were duc or not;
she also demeaned - herself by beg Bing from her
own family, and not unfrequently she went in debt
with her shoe-maker, or with any shop-keeper
who would give her credit: all was expended on
herself; nor was she ever satisfied ; for both rich
and poor, prove t! 10 truth of the proverb, ¢ much
would have more;” the miser hoardsup g old, 2
wishes for more; ‘the ambitious monarch grasps ¢
sovereign power, and wishes for more ; the mor-
chant extends his trade, aud desires more; the
coquette seizes on lover's hearts, and wishes for
more; the vain woman lays up fine clothes, and
wishes for more, Whoever they be that "have

 
32

it only in view, to gratify themselves, are never
satisfied.

We haye said that Betty delighted in being abroad
with company. She always exceeded the time
allowed, though she promised vehemently to be
at home before the time appointed, but the dea
light of showing lier new clothes, and the desire
she had to see what other girls wore, so much
engrossed her thoughts, that she never calculated
how much time was spent at the dance, how much
in gossipping with her companions, and how much
in sauntering home, Her mistress being weary
of her repeated breaches of promise, gave her
warning: she expressed no concern, but said she
vas sure she could easily get a better place. James
was stung to the heart, when he heard that Bott
was gotig to leave them, nor did he like Polly the

ss fou expressing her sorrow and her fears, that

might succeed hor. When the day of
ment arrived, and Betty found there “was
me du to her, she wasina rage, and declara

was wronged, James and Polly could not

join her against a master and mistress, who had
been uniformly kind to them, and who had borne

ith her bevond what any cther people would
have done. James reminded her that she never
listened to her mistress when she was explaining
hier account to her, but always said she would
Teave it to herself, which he told her at the time,
was wrong, becauseevery one ought toknow exact] y
what they have. James's sorrow for her depar-
ture was nearly cured, by the torrent of abuse
which she poured out by turns on the family, on
him, and on Polly. At this moment James thought
Polly’s face much more pleasing than Betty's,
nor did he discourage the thought, for his judg
went, confirmed by all the feelings of his heart,
gave a decided preference to Polly. Betty depart-
¢d, and Polly was promoted to her place, where

83

she met still oftener with her mistress and Miss
Brampton, and was more immediately employed
by them. She found it easier and much more to
her interest, to pretend to nothing which she did
not understand, but to be read y to obey directions,

t was not long till she was a much better servant
than Betty, and at the end of her year, she receiv-
ed the difference between three and five pounds,
and was promised five guineas for the next year,
She testified her duty and affection by presenting
her mother with a cloak—a cloak of her own
earning—how delightful to the feclings of an
affectionate daughter I! James became acquainted
with the circumstance, and immediately he saw
marked in Polly’s face the soft features of benevo-
lence; he called it good nature, and in it he saw
the affectionate wife, and the tender mother. Her
good temper was long known to him, and her
vincerity and modesty, all which virtues either ap-
peared, or he fancied they appeared in her coun-
tenance, insomuch, that a smile of Polly’s was
as charming as ever Betty’s had been: nor had he
any reason to check his satisfaction, or to fear that
the sunshine of Polly’s countenance would be over
cast with a frown, In short, he gave himself up
to admire Polly, and communicated to her hig
affection. No young woman, in Polly’s station,
could be displeased with such a lover, his man-
hers were engaging, and his honesty, sobriety,
and learning so. remarkable, that he was a tit
match for any farmer's daughter in the country,
Notwithstanding the sincere attachment of James
and Polly to each other, yet they had no intention
of marrying, till they had secured a sufficiency
against the time of need. They were not satisfied
with having barely enough to keep themselves
alive, they looked forward to the chance of sick-

© ness or losses, from which few are exempt, and
i Ti pe a 4 . . :
= aso to the probability of their family iereasing,

BS

BEE Sa gt ast aes

ME ERS al ia

SREB gig wc,

 
+ 5

3%

and the eventof old age and consequent infirmi-
ties.

As James had always the intention of marry-
ing, whenever he should meet a girl to his
mind, so he had early begun to leave some
of his wages in his master’s hands. Polly now
did the same. She had five guineas a year,
three guineas she expended on clothing her-
self—half-a-guinea she laid out on whatever
clothes her mother appeared to want most, and
a guinea and half she left with her mistress
against the time of her marriage. It must be
observed, that the three guineas which
Polly expended on clothes, cannot be considered
as totally lost to the future time, as some of
it was laid out on flax and wool, which she
paid for having spun and manufactured into

linen, lindsey, flannel, and blankets. Although the |

first cost of these articles was not very low,

yet they were much stronger than what she
could buy in the shops, and she did not so
much miss the money which was expended so
gradually, as if she had laid it out all at once.
She also remarked, that having to pay these
small sums for useful things, prevented her
from laying out her money on what she did
not want, and yet might be tempted to buy.
Polly never threw away any thing. She made
up very small pieces of linen and calico into

a quilt; and those pieces which were not worth

sewing together, she sold to the ragman. She
informed her mother of James’s proposal: the
old woman rejoiced at her daughter's good

luck, advising her not to delay marrying while

he was in the humour, for, added she, ¢“ men
are very changeable, and may be he'd be more

taken with another girl before it’s long. Sure all
the neighbours knew he doated on Betty Mooney,

and see he never married her, though she was all

3%

as fond of him.” ¢ No blame to them,” said
Polly, ¢ to. like one another, for they were both
well to be liked, he for his goodness, and she for
her beauty ; but, mother, there’s no one can say
that he ever offered to marry her, or used her
badly in any way, and I have a right to know.
I'm not afraid, continued Polly, of James chang-
ing his mind, for he is not one that does a thing
in a hurry, nor ’till he knows for what, and sure,
mother, if we were to marry now, we'd only go
into hardship, and in case of sickness or the like,
we might be a burden to charitable people.
¢ Well, said Esther, take your own road, but that
was not my way, for I married your father one
evening after a day’s acquaintance. He happened
to hear that my uncle left me a great deal of
money, and a couple of cows: the half of it was
not true, to be sure, though my brother made your
father believe that I had that and a chance of
more; and signs on it, your father was mad, when
he found I had but two gold guineas and a young
heifer ; but it was too late to fret, for we were
married, and hauled home, before he found it
out: At first I was sorry enough that we deceived
him, when I saw him so cross to me: but vou
see we had great luck, and your father gathered
as much money as would go near to fill a gentle-
man’s purse.” Dolly Cassidy, an old neighbour,
happened to be sitting by, and reminded Esther
that they had no great luck, as few days went by
without a quarrel; “and a good reason why, added
Dolly, because neither of you knew what you were
about; except that poor Tom was all” for scrap-
ing.” “I won’t deny,” said Esther, “that we often
had words, and the reason was that whenever
noer Tom was in the wrong, he thought it was
I that was wrong : and when he was vexed he had
a fashion of saying, he was a fool to marry ’till
he had. counted the cost, and had time to lock

BEE rene

a SR ENA

 
86

about him.” Esther would have drawn out at
length herown justification, and the condemnation
of poor Tom, had not Polly turned the conversa-
tion from a subject which led to such unpleasant
recollections. Let us then turn the readers at-
tention to the pleasing plans of James and Polly,

whose youthful ardour and sanguine hopes were

not crushed, but tempered by the dictates of -

of prudence. Their affections became stronger
as their interests were more and more twisted
together. Participation ef joy or sympathy in
affliction always has this effect. The attachment
of James and Polly did not escape the observation
of their master and mistress. Mr. Brampton
was an excellent manager of his own property,
and by observation and kind interference, he had
made himself acquainted with the wants of such
a young couple as James and Polly, he therefore
gave James the following advice: ¢ In the first
place, James, as you value the advice of one who
has your interest at heart, I warn you against
the example of inconsiderate young people, who
marry without having saved more money than
is sufficient to buy the ring and pay the priest,
they then depend on their earnings, which are
little enough to support themselves. When the
children come, scarcity ensues. Misery is the
consequence of sickness, and as to clothing them-
selves, I am sorry to say that many poor people
do not attempt it, indeed it is out of their power.
Many a well dressed girl becomes a poor slat-
tern in a short time, and the tattered clothes
of her husband cannot defend him from the wet
and cold to which he must be exposed. 1am
happy to know, that you, James and Polly, are
saving your earnings, which you will find all litttle
enough, even if no particular misfortune occur.
How much, James, do you think ycu have
saved 7”

 

37

James. 1 don’t exactly remember, Sir, but I
have the account: as you ordered me always to
keep my own accounts. I think, Sir, that I
have saved five guineas, or thereabouts,

Mr. B. And how much has Polly saved ?

James. It would not become me, Sir, to be
looking into what she saves, or what she lays out,

‘but I think T overheard her saying that she had

saved a guinea and a half,
_ Mr. B. That is six guineas and a half, which
1s £7: 7: 103. Now James, I would not advise
you to marry ’till you have at least £10.
James. I'm certain it’s all little enough ; and
if 1t 1s not tco much trouble, Masier, would you
advise me how to lay it out in the first outset,
Mr. B. My opinion is, that you should take
an acre of ground, suppose at £3 a year : build
a cabin, which will cost about £35. You might take
the land now, and begin to build, while “you are
here, and by the time it is built, you will have
laid up a little more money : perhaps you cannot
get the land as low as I calculate ; and there are
SO Inany expenses incident to building, that you
should always lay out to have more money than
you first reckoned upon. Mrs, Brampton and
Emma will advise Polly about the furniture which
must be got for the cabin: but remember that
every thing will cost money, even the lid of the
pot, and the stick for the stirabout. Then ‘ou
must have turf laid in, and a. stock of oon
to begin with, and what you call kitchen to eat
with them. You must lay out twelve shillings
for a pig: and by all means have a pig-stye, which
will prcmote your own decency, and save man
a dispute with the neighbours. = Polly will he
some fowl: she is a good hand at feedipo them
and collecting their eggs: young fowl sometimes
fetch a high price : with good management, you
will be able after a while to buy a cow, but this

 
38

ought not to be aimed at too soon ; after you have
turned your acre to the best account wit corn an
potatoes, and laid it down with grass seeds and
clover, then you may think of the cow.

While James and Polly are making these
arrangements, T hady thinks it time for him to
marry. Notwithstanding his extravagance, yet
he is very fond of money, and Tesolves never
to marry a girl without a fortune, Pat. Reeves
held the farm adjoining Thady’s, and was as
areat a miser as ever Tom Quin had been :
add to this, he was so cunning that his neigh-
bours called him ¢ a limb of the law.” He had
four daughters, to whom he gave fine clothes,
in hopes they would attract admirers, Phebe,
the eldest, was at the dance every Sunday,
and her father gave out that she should have
a great fortune. Thady proposed for her, and
had her’s and her father’s consent. They were mar-
ried without dclay, and Pat asked I'bady if
he had any employment for his son Denny;
Thady was so well pleased with the match,
that he said, “ Ay, I have employment enough
for them all, and plenty to put in their mouths
too.” The wily Pat takes him at his word,
and sends home with Phebe, her three sisters,
Nessy, Mary, and Judy, together with the
rattling lazy Denny, < Now, says Thady to
his mother, ““you need not complain of want
of help, I’ve broagit you home as many to wait on
you, as if you were a lady.” Poor Esther
found no relief, nor was it long ull she became
the slave of all. Thady’s displeasure and dis-
appointment in a little time was not less than
his mother’s, when he found his large family a
burden to Lin, instead of any assistance. Not

one of them was willing: to work, and even if
they were willing. Thady was not capable of

The whole

planning cmplovment for so many,

ieee RB ak

39

economy of his house and farm, if econom

it can be called, was without plan. He seldom
knew one day what he meant to do or have
done next. So far from the merry house which
he expected, he had around him a number of
lazy proud women, who acted without method,
and who vied with one another in extravagance,
and what they called making a genteel appearance,
who were constantly in contusion, and had disputes
every day. Thady never in his life had blamed
himself or examined his own conduct, therefore
it was not likely he would now alter his manner
of living. He never conceived that he had acted
wrong in introducing such a number of people
into his house, whom he did not want, but he
found that a great deal more provision was
necessary for seven people than for two; plain
as this may appear, yet it added to his dis-
appointment, and was’ the introduction to his
difficulties. His mother, who was not a bad
manager, had always been in the habit of layin

in every thing Necessary for the family at” the
proper season: but it was impossible for her
to foresee that Thady would bring home so
many people along with his wife, and she had
not provided more oatmeal, or flour, or butter,
than usual; therefore the provision of the house
was soon exhausted, and demands were continu-
ally making upon Thady’s purse. As long as
his money lasted, he gave it readily, because
he was in daily expectation of his wite’s fortune,
When the oney was out, he easily obtained
credit, as being considered rich; and his
creditors also thought he had got, or would
get a great fortune with Phebe, W henever
Lhady was pressed for money, he applied to
bis father-in-law to fulfil his promise, but was
still put off. At first Thady thought Pat only
slow in parting with the money, and tha

 
ORIGINAL DEFECTIVE

mm CI SAAN 1 CL TI 5 ir rio ailing

40

perhaps he was the more sure of it for that reason-
Tired with being dunned, at last Pat told
Thady plainly, that he never would give him
a farthing. Did not you promise me as plain
as ever man spoke, says Thady? Pat with
a malignaut sneer replied, ¢“ Do I owe you any
thing? Where is my note? Have you it
about you, or did you leave it with your
careful mother?” Thady eould not bear this,
he had attempted to defraud his own family
by keeping from them their right—but he was
now completely outwitted. It is in vain to
attempt to describe his rage, his threats, and
the big thoughts of revenge, which rolled through
his mind and distorted his countenance, alter-
nately pale and inflamed; and still more
smpossible to describe Pat’s coolness, contempt,
and malicious triumph. ¢ Did not I send home
to you what is a great deal better than money?
Have you not my four fine girls and my boy,
all working for you, and the never a halt-
penny ever you offered them, nor a tack to
put on them.” ¢ Working for me! working
for me!” exclaimed Thady.—% you lie, they
never did any thing for me:—pay them! for
what? for eating, and drinking, and fighting,
and jarring, and taking up my fireside,
and walking over my floor, that I have not
room to turn myself about, nor to smell
the fire the coldest day that blows; but I
never said a word, because I thought the
were an honest man’s children, but I'll alter
my tune the minute I put my foot in my
house.” ¢ You'd better say no more, said Pat;
it is not easy to vex me: but when I am vexed,
or when I hear myself called any thing but
an honest man, I know what to do as well
as them that are in a passion, I tell you again,
if you have my note, I'll pay you every

= a ———————————

 

41

fartbing I promised.” Thady’s indignation was
not diminished, Lut knowing well that ¢ the
limb of the law” was tco much for him, he
thought he had better smother his wrath as
well as Le could; and lest he might make
more work for repentance, he took bis depar-
ture from Pat’s presence. Though all unused to
eriors, yet his present
8 suficrings made him feel ome conipunction
= for his unkind. treatment to his brother, and
on this acccunt he was more cowardly in
| giving up the dispute, or attempting to have
| vedress, than perhaps Le otherwise might have
been; for guilt makes us cowards, while tiuth
¢ and Innccence are generally courageous. Indeed
. Thady was never before so sensible of the Lase-
ness eof his own conduct; for partiality to
curselves, blinds us to the deformity of our
vices,

i

ile feared loo thet thi wily cd man weuld ex=
pose his injustice to his Lrether, os revenge might
prompt hin to take this trouble. Viben kis car
gave place to anger, he determined to turn every
teeves cut of his house; and he had thoughts
| of sending even his wife home; Lut when his
© passion cecled, he altered his mind, and determined

| to let things remain as they were, at least for

© the present. "They who are blown about by the
| storm of thar passion, are no-more able to guide
their course through the vicissitudes of life, than a
ship without a pilot can safely steer across the
A Loi Vihen Pat thought he had
3 ently humbled Thady, be tcck a more

niarged view of Lis own interests. The report
of his ¢iving Phebe no fortune might prevent his
other daughters getting matches ; and be conceived
it unlikely that Thady wculd centinue to cnter-
tain so many of his family, while he had such

 

 

 

j goed reason to be angry, and particularly he

 
| ORIGINAL DEFECTIVE |

resem er

 

42

did not wish for the return of Denny, as he
never had any intercourse with him but what
was discordant. Unlike Thady, Pat was a great
calculator : he never allowed any thing to be
done in his house *till he had time to look about
him, as he said himscif--he bargained about
every trifle, as if he expected to be cheated :
he made a point of oversetting ail his children’s
plans of amusemeit, let them be ever so inno-
cent : and it was his greatest wish that his only
son sheuid be as clever as himself. But Denny
was only ingenious in undermining his frlier’s
plots, at which he was indefatizable.  Thady’s
plans wer all confused! thrown together without
system.— Pat built plot upon plot: but the foun-
dation was bad, it was destitute of truto or honour,

Pat having put together all the inconvenient
consequences of Lis Biench of promise; resolved
to give Thady a small sum, which wonld be doub-
ly acceptable at a time when nothing was ex-
pected. Accordingly, he put on a rieasant coun
tenance, and walked down to "Thady’s : his daugh-
ter sct him a chair by the fire; looking with seem-
ing satisfaction, he observed there was a fine fa-
mily ; “it takes a power of money these times, con.
tinued he, to fortune off such a parcel of daugh-
ters.” Pat ohserved Thady’s sulky look, and that
the storm would soon gather if he lost time, he
therefore proceeded to remark, that a struggling
farmer like him could not pavwoney at a mo-

mer.t’s warning, whatever he might do when he |

took time to look about him, ¢ [ was planning,”
he added, ¢ how I might make up a penny for

vou, Thady: for I'd struggle hard before I'd

have any coolness with any one belonging to me: g
it’s my way to be as agreeable as 1 can to every

one: may be I could scrape together ten guincas

for you, my boy.” Thady’s smothered indigna- 7%
tion Cid not escape Pat’s penetrating eye, though 8

 

43

he pretended not to observe it; he eentinued:
# Don’t make any acknowledgments, it’s all little
enough, if I had more to spare, you were welcome
to it.” Thady was in want of a little ready 120-
ney, so he thought it would be foolish to roiuse

guinecs; for ence in his 'ife he
OH

the ten
dent, he asked Lis father-in-law for his note, a

the money was soen paid 3 at the seme time "Thady
agreed to allow Denis a salary for his services.
'Thady was in a pretty good humour for a icw
weeks, while the ten guineas lasted; but the
money and the geoa humour were soon exhaust-
ed, and iresh expedients were continually tried
to procure fresh supplies. "Thady now found
Denny very useful in contrivirg ways and means
of surmounting present dificuities. A cow was
to be sold, a Lit of land to Le sct, or horses and
cars to be hired cut; these expedients brought in
meney, relieved the present embarvassment, and
enabled the women to pursue their extravagance.
Indeed they were not entirely indebted to Denny’s
ingenuity for their fine dresses, their tea, and their
punch; they carried on private sales, they sold a
few potatoes, a little corn or vat-meal, to oblige
a friend, the money went to support their foliy and
extravagance, and was a source of misery to
Phebe, for the concealment necessary, only
cerved to estrange her still mere from her hus-
band. How different is this conduct of nis-
trusting and undermining, and how much mi-
sery does it bring, when compared with the sin-
cerity and candour of those who, afilicted by
the hand of Providence, sympathize with one
another, cannot blame themselves for their mis-
fortunes, and who consult together how their dis-
tresses may be relieved, As might be expected,
Thady’s distresses continued to increase, and his
resources to diminish. Things were in this situa-
tion when he brought a fine flock of sheep to the

 
44

fair: on the sale of these he depended for the
payment of his rent: there were no better sheep
in the fair; a very genteel looking person bid
him a high price for them; it was not his dress
alone which induced Thady to give him a few
day’s credit, but his spirited horse, his new sad-
dle and bridle, and his plausible manner, con-
vinced Thady he was dealing with a wealthy man.
Thady thought it needless for so fine a gentleman
to pass liis promissory note, which, however, he
did, and Thady put it in his pocket: the next
time he went to light his pipe, he used this note
for that purpose, as he could not read. The fine
gentleman, however, could not be heard of, the
rent was unpaid, and the landlord drove the re-
maining cattle. Thady now opens lis eyes on
the extravagance of the Reeves: his wife seeing
ruin approaching, informs him of the provisions

—i.3..3. den? nbn

al A inary ale A rire he
Wi... Arnos SPICY RUPE J ¥ 33.4.8 | Gisposcd Oot: 18 BCs vied

badness of Deuny’s policy, and he turns them all

out of the house. This measure gave his wife
reat offence: and he has no sooner exhausted his
displeasure, than he begins to dread the strong
arm of Denny, and the craft of his father: sorely
did Thady now repent his want of thought and
his contempt of coleulation, feeling the cold hand
of poverty to be the consequence,  Notwithstand-
ing that Thady was sank into this alijoct state, yet
there were as many small sums due to him as
would have satisfied his landlord. Even on the
brink of rain he would say, “what signifies a trific;
it matters little here or there,” He did not
consider that several small sums made a large one,
so he never applied to a creditor, except when
the money was sufficient to satisfy the present exis
gency.
While the unhappy Thady and Phebe were
thus living from hand to mcuth: their minds as
destitute of pleasing recollections and pious hopes,

garden,

45

*

~ as their pockets were empty of money; the ami-

able and worthy James and Polly were calmly

providing for their future life : they hoped to keep
© above want and extreme hardships; but they did
© not expect to live at ease, nor to make a genteel
. show.

They did not neglect the business of their
master and mistress in order to forward their own,

but they exerted themselves the more in the morn-
'¥ ing, that they might freely ask leave to go in the
- evening to see what progress was made in building

the cabin; and at after hours James planted cabba-
ges in the littie spot which he had laid out for the
At length the cabin was finished : the
furniture was every day coming home: the rooms
were aired and white-washed : the turf was brought

~ home, and neatly clamped up in a little shed : the

pig-stye was built, and the pig bought: the potatoes

9 were fit to dig, and the little crop of corn looked
- promising : the windows were glazed, and the

honey-suckle which Miss Emma had planted with

her own hand, had shot up almost as high as the

door : there was nothing now wanting to make

~ the picture complete, but the presence of James

and Polly: they were accordingly married, and
Mrs. Brampton gave them the wedding supper :
and it was said that Mrs. Brampton and her

* deughter Emma shed tears when they were taking
leave of the young couple. Betty Mooney, who
+ was, one of Polly’s first visitors, inquired what Mr.
and Mrs. Brampton had given her towards house-
keeping: when she found that they had only given

her a wash-tub and a spinning wheel, she expres-

© sed the utmost contempt for such presents. It

was a burning shame, she said, to put off a servant

with the like, that had served them well and

honestly for such a length of time. *’Tis myself,
continued Betty, that’s proud encugh to be where
Iam, with a fine genteel family, that think no

| mote of what they have, than if it was so much

 
 

46

dirt.” Betty had gone to live at Sir John Bloom's,
where she had high wages, and a great deal of lei-
sure. Dolly was too modest to be very fond of
giving advice, or to express the judicious reflec-
tions which passed in her mind; for the present she
only defended her master and mistress from the
charge of stinginess, declaring they had done for
her, and behaved to her asif she was their child,
Indeed Polly thought in her own mind, that she
did not now stand in need of much help, as good
management she hoped would supply all their
wants; butshe felt confident, thatthe family she had
left, would be true friends to her and James if ever
they needed it, and perhaps much more consider-
ate than those who valued their possessions “¢ no
more than dirt.” Nor did it escape Polly’s ob-
servation, that Sir John’s servants, and kitchen
maids, and little runners, were much more dirty
than any of Mr. Brampton’s people. After some

time James bought a cow, Polly understood the
management of milk, and was so clean, and her
house so free from smoke, that she got a better
price for her fresh butter than any other cabin

keeper in the neighbourhood. She also carned
something at plain work, Miss Brampton often
called to see her, and with delight reported to her
mother the success which attended James and
Polly's industry. Unfortunately there was only a
ditch between Reeves’ land and James’ .—It was
the Reeve’s right to keep up the fence, which they
never ‘lid, so that James’s cow frequently trespassed
on their corn, and was as frequently put in pound,
and released with Jame.’s money. James had
frequently begged of Pat Reeves to join him in
repuiring the fence, but without avail, and Mr.
Brampten advised James to repair it rather than
have disputes: this he determined on, and only
waited for suitable weather, when his cow broke
over again, When he went to bring her home

47

in the morning, what was his surprise to find her
lying in Reeves’ ditch, her side bleeding dreadfully.
With difficulty the poor animal was brought home,
and for seversi days they were at great expense
and trouble about her, at the end of which time
the cow died, and her carcasc was worth little
more than the value of the hide. It was in vain
for James to look after the author of this cruel
outrage—the Reeves all positively denied it, and

© some of them went so far as to insinuate that James
~ himself might have done it, in order to throw

© the blame on them. This was a grievous loss to

© James and Polly ; but it was only the commence«
~ ment of their misfortunes; for soon after it was
3 followed by James taking a lon

g sickness : winter

- came before he was recovered, and the rheumatism

: took such hold of his relaxed frame, that he lost

theuse of his limbs. During this trial the affections
t James and Polly became strengthened by the ties
of gratitude on his part, and solicitude on her's.
With what joy did she sometimes think she percei-
ved the smallest symptoms of recovery, and how
much was she over-paid for her attentionby his gra-
titudeand patience! But their distress daily increa-
sed, the expense of niedicine soon emptied theirlittle
purse, which could not now be recruited by James’
earnings. The price of their corn was sunk in
the cow, but they were thankful that they bad a
stock of potatoes, their turf, and a little meal.
They had their pig too, though necessity had
nearly obliged them to sell it. It was now that
Mr. and Mrs, Brampton proved their friendship.
A day seldom passed over, that Polly did not
receive some marks of their attention. “If they
had loaded us with presents, said James, when we
did not need them, they could not so well afford this
every day kindness now, for I know that they are
not to say rich people, but where do you see the
very rich doing as much good as they do, and

 

 

 
48

it is not to a favourite here or there, but to eve

one near them, when they are in distress.” Polly
now found that she had not calculated badly in
staying in her place instead of going to Sir
Jolin’s, where she would have got perhaps higher
wages, and never be thought more of after she
left them. While they were in this struggling
way, Polly lay-in: the sight of the child by no
means increased their trouble, as they looked
forward to the time when it might comfort and
assist them. Old Esther attended Polly, and took
as much care as she could of James. John who
was all this time working day labour for his
landlord, had saved nothing, but was out of
debt: he now became very kind to Pelly, and
often eat a meal less in the day, that he might
bring her home his earnings: from Thady she
neither expected nor obtained any relief: the
afflicted couple had however the consolation, that
their misfortunes were not brought on by
their own idleness or extravagance. They re-
gretted that they had not subscribed to the Benefit
Society : but they determined to do so, if ever
it was in their power again to spare three pence
a week. As James discovered no symptom of
amendment, and saw his wife greatly harassed
between attending to him and the child; with
the approbation of Mr. and Mrs. Brampton,
he determined on going to the hospital. Mr.
Brampton was himself one of the subscribers
and governors to an hospital a few miles off;
and he knew the overseers to be honest men.
With a heavy heart Polly accompanied him,
who had been so strong and healthy a few months
before, and with whom she had hoped to go
through life so pleasantly : now a weak crippie,
she must leave him to strangers, These were
cutting thoughts, which often brought tears to
her eyes, and made her sigh bitterly: but she

 

 

49

endeavoured to shew James a pleasant face, and
to encourage him to hope for better days. They
prayed for resignation to the will of Providence,
and expressed heart-felt satisfaction that they
could not blame themselves. Polly’s grief was
somewhat mitigated, when she saw the inside
of the hospital. Mr. Brampton had given her
a letter to the overseer, requesting that she might
sce all the rooms, and that all her inquiries might
be satisfied ; he also recommended James to very
particular attention. When Polly saw the neat-
ness and airiness of the rooms, the goodness of the
beds, the tenderness of the attendants, the clean-
liness, and plenty of wholesome victuals, and
the regularity of the whole, she was greatly
delighted and did not find the dreaded parting
so hard as she expected. When poor Polly
returned to her lonesome cabin and her helpless
infant, her heart sunk: how often did she wish
to have her sick husband sitting or lying in her
sight, he could still give her an approving smile
or an affectionate word: She might still enjoy
his pleasant conversation and be comforted by
his pious words. She was giving vent to her
feelings in a flood of tears, when Miss Brampton
entered : ¢ Ah, my poor Polly, I pray you
keep up your heart, and hope for the best.” I
know you have great reason for your trouble;
but you are much happier than those, who though
they have health and plenty of money, yet their
conduct is so bad as to disturb their thoughts.
I would much rather be either you or James, than
the wicked man who killed your cow. And Pol-
ly, my father says, he hopes James will got
quite well in the hospital; and he knows he will
be well taken care of.” Polly had too good a mind
to refuse comfort, and she willingly listened to,
and believed, all that Miss Brampton said to
hor. Indeed it was most happy for her that her

 
 

50

young friend had come in when she did; for she
was scarcely gone when a number of her neigh-
bours entered, and expressed their amazement at
her sending her poor husband out of her sight, and
above all tv an hospital, where the sick people
are abused, and starved, and perished : for their
part, they had rather sce any one belonging to
them laid in their grave, than have them go to
such a place, that looked just like a goal, with
a parcel of frightful keepers about it, and such
locks and keys, and exactness from morning "till
night : and the cart that comes for them, looks
for all the world like what they have in Dublin
to pick up the beggars.” ¢ No, but,” says another,
« like what they used to take people in to be

hanged long ago.” How rejoiced was poor Polly

that she had gone herself, and had seen the hos-
pital with her own eyes. She told her interfering
and ignorant neighbours, that she had been all

over the house, and though she had heard
how good it was, she had not heard half enough
of it, and that James was in a bed and a room,
that a gentleman might be content with. In vain
Polly represented the happy situation her hus-
band was placed in, they answered that perhaps
every thing might look well to her for the one
look she gave at it, but if there were much victuals
stirring in the house, there must be some sign of
them, and the place never could be so clean en-
tirely; and if they were not all afraid of their
lives, there would be some noise through the
house; and any how, what interest would any
one there have, in taking care of such poor crea-
tures, that they never would get a halfpenny
from? Polly was not proof against all these
insinuations : she feared that she had indeed been
deceived, and that they might turn the best side
out to any one who came from Mr. Brampton.
From this time her mind was never easy day

51

or night, ’till she had a letter from James, des-
cribing the comforts he enjoyed, and inclesing a
printed paper, giving an account of all the money
which was subscribed, and how it was laid
out ; so much for rent; so much for salaries
to the overseer, the matron, the physician, and
the surgeon; so much for medicines, so much
for wages to the servants, and so much for
providing food for so large a family. ¢ I wish,”
continued James, in his letter, ¢ that poor
people would make inquiry about places, and
things, before they praise them or run them
down. Surely, my dear Polly, if one hospital
be bad, it is no reason that they are all so: be-
sides all the attendance that you saw, there are
several ladies and gentlemen who often visit us,
they come when they are not expected, and go
from room to room, and from bed to bed, seeing
that every thing is right, and may be sometimes
comforting and advising us. I am always the better
for their visits, and feel myself more contented,
especially when Mr. Litouche comes. It does
my heart good to think there is such goodness
in the world, and what can Mr. Latouche or any
of them expect from us for a recompense. No,
no, they look for their reward where they will not
be disappointed, and where I hope we'll all be
happy yet, so my dear, don’t be fretting yourself,
but hope for the best, both in this world and the
world to come. A friend of mine here writes
this letter for me, for my hands are not well
yet, but they are better.—Wishing you every
comfort, and better times. I remain
Your affectionate husband,
James CosTELLO.”

This letter did Polly a great deal of good
She happened to meet her brother Thady, and
read it to him, but he made little account of

the goodness of the rich. Thady never calcu-

 
 

lated the value of benefits, nomorethanofany thing
else. On such occasious he would say, ¢“ What do
the rich care for money or time ¢ either?”
With very different sensations the letter was read
by Miss Brampton, who begged to shew it to
her father and mother. They were much pleased
with the style of the letter, and still more to
find their sentiments confirmed, that James
had such a good and grateful mind as to be re-
signed and thankful for his situation. From this
time Mr. Brampton meditated in his mind how
James might be employed, if ever he was sufficient-
ly recovered to come home; and his wife had
great hopes that his good humour and patience
would contribute to his recovery, as the surgeons
assured her that it would have that effect. In
the mean time, Polly spun flax when she had not
more profitable work, as she had trained her child
to sleep without rocking. Her cabin was so
clean-and her “oom so airy, that two friends of
Mr. Brampton in Dublin, entrusted their children
to her care; and her punctuality and reasonable
charges, induced her neighbours to give her plain
work. She had some cabbage plants also to dis-
pose of, though her neighbours had discouraged
her sowing them. Time in some degree recon-
ciled her to the absence of her husband : but when
she sat alone at her work, and the child asleep,
she often had to wipe away the tear before she
could see where to put in her needle. Her brother
John continued his kindness to her: he planted
her potatoes, and was very few days without com-
ing to sec her.

It has been related that Betty Mooney
went to live at Sir John Bloome’s. aul Sum-
mers, a house carpenter, was often employed
there, and made love to Betty. ¢ You may as
well make up your mind at once, says Paul: for
I don’t see what great good comes of considering
and calculating. You sce all it did for James

 

 

53

and Polly Costello: it’s a folly to talk, when
it’s our luck to be sick and poor, and to have
our substance stolen and killed onus, we must
bear it: for all the contrivance in the world never
can keep off bad fortune.” Betty was of Paul’s
opinion, and they were married soon after this
conversation. Although Paul and Betty had
saved nothing, yet Betty considered herself ver
lucky, as Paul was a tradesman, and she had a
deal of fine clothes; onthe day of her marriage
Lady Bloom and the young ladies gave her a
great deal more, and also made her a present of a
gilt looking-glass, and a set of tea things, towards
house-keeping. Paul took a house and garden
from Pat. Reeves, and Betty was very fond of
sitting a while, and taking a walk with his daugh-
ters; Denny sometimes accompanying them. At
first, Betty went only now and then to the Reeves’s,
when Paul was gone to his work, and after she had
cleaned up the house. But she became so fond
of gossipping, that Paul often came home to a lone-
some house: the fire out, and the things not
washed up or put in their places from breakfist
time till dinner, or from dinner to supper. Accord-
ingly Paul was displeased, and the expression of his .
displeasure was sure to excite Betty's passions,
and disfigure her handsome countenance. Paul
could not help recollecting conversations he had
had with James on this subject: but he could
bear with any thing better than to sce her walking
with Denny, who was known to be a worthless
fellcw. Betty’s excuse to herself forleaving the house
was, that she would not give Paul a bad: fashion
in the beginning, and when she took a walk late
in the evening with Denny, she still said she would
not give her husband a bad fashion, to be afraid
of him for nothing. One day that Betty called
to see Polly, she made great complaints of Paul’s
$l temper, « Now as you bring it up, says

 
 

54

Polly, T must tell you that the neighbours remark
your being seen oftener walking with Denny
Reeves, than with your husband; Pm sure you
have not any harm in it; but if the neighbours
remark it, why would not Paul remark it.

Betty. And what if he did remark it. Surel have
no harm in taking a bit of a walk with a neigh-
bouring boy: and why need I be afraid either of
the neighbours or of Paul? I would not give him
the fashion of striving to humour him this way
at the first going off.

Polly, Ah Betty, we ought always to strive
to please our husbands: but before we have
proved ourselves to them fit to be trusted, we
ought to be still more careful net to give them
any reason to suspect us. Whether a woman is
to blame or not, it is a sad thing to have any
thing said of her character, or for her to forfeit
her husband’s good opinion.

Although Betty said very true that she had no
harm in walking with Denny, any more than
diverting herself at the expence of her husband’s
peace of mind, and her own future comfort, yet
she was too obstinate and self “willed, to alter
her conduct. Paul told her his mind, in such
strong terms, that she left the house, declaring
she would go home to her mother, who never
hindered her from doing what she liked, and
going where she liked ; Betty’s mother was by
no means glad to receive her, as she had never
been of much use to her, and Betty did not
find it very agreeable to return to the scanty
living and poor lodging of a little cabin. In
the mean time Paul Jetermined to be revenged
on Denny. He had been often witness to his
selling Thady’s corn as his own, and he knew
that he kept the money, and laid it out for his
own use. He had also seen Denny receiving
bribes from people that he dealt with at fairs,
when he bought and sold cattle for Thady,

Ee

55

and they went to drink together. He had
suspected Denny also of taking up Thady’s
loose money that he left carelessly about.

At the time that Paul had observed these
things, he resolved not to interfere in other
people’s business; but now revenge and dis-
appointment determined him to come forward
and tell Thady all he knew. Thady tcid all
to Mr Brampton, who advised him not to go
into a passion, which was his way, but to bring
the party before a magistrate. Denny was une
expectedly summoned before he had time to
receive instructions from his artful father. Paul’
remembered so many circumstances, and declared
that he could bring forward other witnesses,
that Denny was confounded, and had litle to
offer in his defence. The magistrate took the
examination, and Thady was bound over to
prosecute. As the Recves were much disliked
in the country, it was not long before Denny’s
disgrace was the subject of general conver-
sation. In the mean time a person came forward,
vho informed Paul, that being up carly one
morning in summer, he had seen Denny driving a
cow over the disputed ditch, and stabbing her with
a pitchfork; this story gained credit and was much
tulked of, when it came to the ears of Mr. Bramp-
ton, he felt no small pleasure at the prospect of
innocence triumphing over vice.

It was not long ’till Pat Reeves heard of the
new accusation that was coming against his son.
Ile threw his great coat over his shoulders, and
walked down to Polly, praised the neatness of
her cabin, remarked what a fine child she would
have reared for James against his coming home:
inquired for him, and hoped he would soon be
well. All these civilities were as civilly answered
by Polly. ¢ This is an odd report is out on my
poor son, says Pat. 1 wonder how people can

 
56

give their tongues so much liberty.” ¢ I am
afraid,” replied Polly, ¢ that there is too much
truth in it.” ¢ Now, Polly,” says Pat, «I know
you are a quiet girl, and always was, and though
there is not one word of truth in all this, no more
than what the justice had before him the other day,
for some people are so fond of news that they listen
to lies, and report them for truth, and so an hoe
nest man’s character is gone (as one may say) un-
known to him; but if you will put a stop to it all,
Pll give you two gold guineas, and that will help
you to lay in a little matter for your poor husband,
against he comes home to you.” Polly replied,
that she could give him no answer, till she had
spoken to her master, who always advised her for
the best. With all Pat’s cleverness and art, he
could make her no answer; he knew it was in vain
to advise her not to consult her master, and would
also look as if he had something to be afraid of.
Never did Pat expect to be put to a nonplus, by
the simple undesigning Polly. Pat took his leave
and retired to bed, but not to rest. Schemes, and
lies, and plots, and counterplots, passed in suc-
cession through his tormented mind: but though
there are many roads to falsehood through the
wilderness of error, yet he found there was but
one road to truth, and that was the one he did
not choose to take. Next morning, Polly went
to consult Mr. Brampton, about taking what Pat
had offered, and so to stop any further inquiry
about the cow, “ for it is so unpleasant,” said she,
¢« for any one, especially a lone woman to have
disputes with a neighbour, and after all, it might
come to nothing, if brought to a trial.” ¢ Not
at all, child,” said Mr. Brampton: ¢ don’t take a
farthing of his money, till you have proved your
right to it: accepting this hush-money would im-
ply adoubt, and his having offered it, is a strong
presumption against him. And, Polly, you are not

 

 

 

57

a Ione woman, you have friends, that are both able
and willing to prevent you from being oppressed
by tyrants, or cheated by knaves. We will bring this
informer before a magistrate, and try to do some
thing for you as well as for Thady.” "It was plain
ly proved that Denny killed the cow, and he was
sentenced to pay what was deemed her full value.
Pat thought it best to compromise for his son in
the best way he could, and as much as possible
to avoid the cccasion of more summonses, as he
was very sensible, that his conduct would not bear
scrutiny. Although Denny had as many artifices
and as much deceit as his father conld wish ; vet
this similarity of disposition did not unite them
together, for as has been observed, there are so
many different roads in the practice of falsehood,
those who enter them, either through envy or
malice, seldom travel together. Denny found no
peace in the society of his family, and he was des- -
pised in the neighbourhood, therefore he resolved
to quit the country. He went to Dublin, where
dishonesty may hide itself in the crowd; but
where honesty is found to be the best policy, as
well as in the country. His friends soon heard
that he listed, and was sent abroad. Although
Pat Reeves had made saving the study of his life,
and had a good farm, yet the extravagance of his
daughters, the neglect and dishonesty of his work-

* men, and his own infirmities soon” undermined

his property. His family were sensibly touched

a at the disgrace brought on them by Denny, but
: still more so to find their property lessening. Pat
jv grieved to the heart, to part with his money,
3] and his daughters were sorely mortified to find

io sources of their extravagance diminishing.

hady’s expenses and losses of various kinds,

obliged him to part with his farm, he sold his in-

rent in it considerably below the value. The

© Fe - v . . z

amages the Reeves’s payed him, enabled him
c3

 
58

to pay his debts ; but though he made 2 jur-
lutions, and was in some degree improved; yet :
found it no easy matter, for a man, circumstance
as he was, to get any thing before hand. His
cabin never looked neat, but he struggled on fiom
day to day; and when he was in pi used lo
boast, that all he had was his own, whic h saying
was often the beginning of a dispute boron | I
and Phebe. As to making any division h 1
property with John, as he had promised w ir he
set out in life, he scarcely ever thought 0 bs
nor did John remind him of his promise, for
though he had no great abilities for calculating,
vet he thought it was useless to solicit a Wi >
divide his property, who appeared to howe too little
to supply his own wants. Intend Jo i es Ty
happy under Polly s roof, with wi on, : lo ged,
that he felt little inclination to disturb his m 4
by any more disputes. He never married, 3s he
said he had no head for calculating 3 and that those
who had nat, should not run the risk of bringing
a wife and children into misery. He Game to
lodge with Polly; was very fond of her child, 2 ac-
quired a taste for gardening. He brought he Ly
all his earnings, and let her manage 1t as she 4 os.
Much against his will, she put three perce pe
week into ¢ the benefit society,” 1M his Bots or
she said it was our duty to provide fr fie oss
and old age, when we are young an % : v
«¢ And what, in the name of wonder, 1s the Jopent
society that I hear you talk so much about, sold
John. ¢ It is,” replied Polly, «a society Fist pu
allow you six shillings a week, if you should be

» unable t f the o
confined to your bed, or unable to go out ©

] JOT} ree shil-
house, or to do any kind of work, and three sh

'e recover le to |
lines a week when yon are recovering, and abl wi
do a little work; but you must always pay tarce

£ vou expect these advantages in
pence a week, if you expect these advantag
sickness,”

 

 

59

At the hospital, James was so far restored
to health, that he wrote several letters to Polly,
but there seemed little probability that he ever
would be able to walk without crutches; it was
therefore considered unnecessary for him to re-
main any longer there. With what joy did he
get the first glimpse of his own little cabin. The
evening sun was shining on the windows, and on
the white-washed walls. The woodbine had met
over the door, and was in full blossom: but bet-
ter and dearer than all, was Polly, standing at the
door, with her child ready to spring out of her
arms. 'l'ears and smiles alternately brightened
and softened her countenance. She was prepar-
ing to help him off the car, but how great was
her surprise and thankfulness, when, with the
help of his crutches, he jumped down, and has-
tened into his cabin. It is needless to describe
the joyous evening they spent together; the looks
of kindness, the responsive smiles, the relations
of past grievances, the providential deliver-
ances from them, and the mutual thanksgiving,
which was often and sincerely repeated. Let us
pass over this happy scene, which may be more
easily conceived than deseribed, and which is more
interesting to the acters than to any one else.

The day afier James's return, Betty Summers
came to see him. It was not without a degree of
envy that she saw the happiness of this worthy
couple, who had not parted from each other in
anger, and were now re-united with so much joy.
When Betty had expressed her satisfaction at
James’s return, and had said every thing that was
proper on the occasion, she began to make her
complaint of the crossness and jealousy of Paul,
who had no reason in life to think ill of her.
James and Polly said they did not wish to know
who was in the wrong at the first; but they ad-
vised her by all means to go back to her husband

STEN
label

 
60

if he would consent to it, and to be loving to

him, and to please him as well as she knew how ;-

especially not to keep company with people he
did not like, and to have the house comfortable
for him; for Paul was worthy of a good wife,
and was not hard to be pleased, except he was
altered since James knew him. Betty said she
was very sorry things turned out as they did;
and if she had it all to do over again, she would
be more agreeable, and humour Paul in his way;
but since they had so many words, and had part-
ed in so much anger, she would be ashamed of
her life to see him, or to speak to him; and she
was sure they never, after what was past,
could live happy together. ¢ If you keep
anger,” said James, or be calling up any thing
that is past, you can’t be happy sure enough; but
if you forgive him entirely, and never mention
any thing to fret him," you will be very happy, or
I do not know Paul Summers.” <I will tell
you what we will do,” said Polly, “and I am
very glad it popped into my head: we will ask
Paul to drink tea with us next Sunday evening,
and you will be here too, and you may go home
together as if nothing had happened.”  ¢ Oh,
Polly my dear, I am sure he never wishes to see
me, nor I do not deserve he should, for it was I
was to blame entirely. I wish I had all the time
I was with him to live over again, and I would not
be expecting him to do every thing to please me,
and I to be doing nothing to please him, but
crossing him in every thing. Oh Polly, Tam
fretting myself to nothing: what shall 1 do, or
how should I face Paul next Sunday?” ¢ Do as
1 want you,” said Polly, and take James’s ad-
vice after that.” With a good deal of persuasion,
Betty consented to come to James's on Sunday
evening ; and she was not long gone, when Paul
came to congratulate James on their happy re-

 

-

Ra

al

 

61

union, and on their obtaining redress for the loss
of their cow. Like Betty, Paul was forcibly
struck with the difference between his situation,
and that of James and Polly. ¢ You were al-
ways the good calculator, James,” said Paul;
« you knew the wife that would match you, in
health and in sickness, in joy or sorrow youth
or old age, not all as one as poor me.” Do
not be making comparisons,” says Polly, ¢ one
body is good for one thing, and another for ano-
ther. 1 am sure I never was to be compared to
your wife, and she is very good-natured too. I
was her fellow-servant, and I have a right to
know. All she wants, is to be settled, and to gain a
little experience, and she has gained some. «1
wish she may be the better of it,” says Paul,
« and more than all, 1 wish we had not parted in
anger. But what other way can a married cou-
ple part? I say it goes to my heart to think how
we parted, and how bitter 1 spoke to her; and the
poor thing going upon that cold floor of her
mother’s.” ¢ Never think more of how you part-
ed,” said James, ¢ except it be to think that you
will never do it again; but think how you will
meet, and how you will be more matchable to
each other: and if you sce her wrong in any thing,
do not check her too severely, since you sce it
goes hard with her, but tell her your mind quietly,
and then you will see she will be led by you. I would
really not say one word for her, if 1 thought she
had any harm more than foolishness and thought-
lessness, in doing as she did.” ¢ Oh not she,” in-
terrupted Paul, ¢ I know she had not, and I was
quite too hard on her, and made her like to be
with any one sooner than with me.” «I will tell
you then,” said James, * that she blames herself
entirely, and cried as if her heart would break,
not an hour ago in this place; and I am sure, by
her manner, that she will be quite another sort

 
 

62

from this out; but she thinks you would not wish
to see her.” ¢ It is I that would wish to see her,
and I wish you would tell her so.” James then
told Paul of Polly’s contrivance, for them to
meet, which pleased him very much: they were
united accordingly, and lived much more happily
than the neighbours expected, for they were ad-
vised by, and kept company with the good and
sensible James and Polly: for, as evil commu-
nication corrupts good manners, so good commu-
nication has a directly opposite effect. By James's
advice, I'aul and Betty became subscribers to
the Benefit Society ; and before a year was out,
they had reason to be glad they did so, for Paul
took a fever, and during five weeks, he was allow-
ed six shillings a week; and when Betty lay in of
her first child, she was presented with a guinea
from the same fund.

Mr. Brampton had long since conceived the
plan of making out employment for James, which
would require no labour. It was not this gentle-
man’s way to boast of what he planned, or to make
large promises: he knew well how dificult it is
for us, sometimes, to execute our best intentions,
and by raising great expectations in the minds of
those we wish to serve, they are frequently disap-
pointed, because we do not come up to their hopes,
or instead of exerting themselves, throw their
whole dependence on us. On the contrary, when
Myr. Brampton formed a plan of obliging, or re-
lieving any cone, he calculated in what manner
he could be of the most permanent service, how
much time or mcney he could afford, and how
long he could continue his kindness, In vain he
endeavoured to procure a clerkship for James.

“hough his excellent character was highly valued,
yet no one ceuld be found, who wanted a person
merely to write, without using any further ever-
tion, except he wasa first rate clerk, which Jumes

 

63

did not pretend to. Dut Mr. Brampton was more
successful in his next attempt, of setting him up
in a little school. He had desks and forms made
under his own eye, and advanced the money
necessary for fitting up the school-room, till it

should be in James’s power to repay him. They

instructed both boys and girls. James was so mild,

and Polly so neat and clever, and both had such

an agreeable manner, that several genteel people
sent their children to the school. It was not long
till Mr. Brampton was repaid. Their circum-
stances gradually became more comfortable, and
after a while they built a school-room. They also
became subscribers to the benefit society. John
continued to live with them, and was of material
service in managing the little farm, and garden,
which he did exactly according to James's direc-
tions, because he said it was very fit he should
make use of other people’s wits when he had little
of his own. Old Esther stayed with her favourite
Thady, as long as she could, but Phebe and
her children treated her with so much cen-
tempt and unkindness, that she was glad to accept
the invitation of James and Polly to live with
them, where she was treated with affection and re-
spect, and greatly assisted Polly in taking care of
the young children, and minding the cabin,
while she was engaged inthe school. How cruel itis
to treat old age and infirmity with unkindness, and
thus to add to the safferings which we ought to miti-
gate by every means in our power ! How can we
expect to be cherished in our old age, if we neglect
our parents, and set this example of disrespec

before our childiven. It gave Mr. Brampton great
pleasure to find that his views were so well se-
conded by the industry, the neatness, and the
abilities of James and Polly. I find,” said he,
¢ that it was worth my while to spend my thoughts
and time upon you.” “I hope,” replied James,

 
6%

“ we shall be ever grateful to you for all your kind-
ness, we often speak of it to one another, though we
don’t say much to you on the subject, as you don’t
like to hear your own praise. What a condition
my poor wife and child would be in only for you !”
* Only for your own savings, says Mr. Brampton;
if you had not saved enough to build your house,
and lay in some provision, you must have become
a burden to society, when your cow died, and you
fell sick.” = Very true, Master,” said James,
“ but it was you put me upon saving my earnings,
and advised me against laying it all out on my
back—it was you got us over our hardships, and
defended us from our enemies, and set us up as we
are; so that we are very snug, and have nothing
to complain of, only my poor limbs, which I never
expect to be much better.” « [tis very sorrowful,”
said Mr. Brampton, for a young man like you
to be so infirm; but you have many reasons for
thankfulness, you have a good wife; you are able
to read and write, and thus to earn your bread ;
but your greatest comfort must be, that you did
not bring this affliction on yourself, Recollect,
that this present state is not the whole of your ex-
istence, and we have reason to hope that the more
we suffer here, the greater will be our crown of
happiness hereafter. You read that the apostles
rejoiced, that they were counted worthy to suffer.

It is not enough to calculate, what is best for
the present life; but the best of all calculation is,
to make our Creator our friend ; and to live as to
have a well grounded hope of more permanent
felicity in the life that is to come.”

E32

t
E x
;

I

ECONOMY.

Ester Holiday was one fine day beetling her

linen, at a clear running stream, when Susy

- Kinchela, who was gathering flowers in the ditches,
| stopped on the bank to speak to her. nol
“Ah, then Esthor,” said she, ¢ sure it is not
* breaking your heart bectling you are, and soap
| but three pence a quarter. title

. Lsther. lt is indeed, Susy, for the linen is so
| coarse, that it would take a power of soap to clean
| it, and it would not be so soft after.
Susy. Well, it is a folly to talk, but you have

~ the most saving ways with you that ever I came

across in all the European world, and may be, they
“that are not so particular entirely, will look as
= well after.

Esther.

 

I would not pretend to look as well as
| you the worst day ever you are; but I don’t look

the worse for being saving; and any how, if I

was not saving, I would not have a stitch to put
on me,

 
 

66

Susy. By all accounts, it is you that have all
sorts in heaps. Have not you linen and woollen,
from the muslin cap to the fine quilt; and from
the yarn stocking to the blanket.

Esther. 1 don’t deny it; bat all I have, won’t
be too much, if any distress should come; and
when I never wronged any one of a farthing, and
had it in my power to put a little by, I thought
there was no harm in it

Susy. Never a harm, but it is fitter for a
young girl like you, to be taking diversion out of
every thing, than to be musing and pausing on
what’s to come.

Just as Susy had said these words, she saw
John Mocore coming up, so she drew her fine cot-
ton gown through her pocket hole, and ran home
as fast as she could, for John was an admirer of
hers, and she scorned him, because he was a sober,
settled young man, and wore a frieze jacket at his
work, and strong stockings and brogues. Of a
Sunday, when he was dressed more gente she
condescended to stay in the same place with In
or sometimes 10 tax to him, but on wee
would not be seen dn his company ; though John
was 3 ail, locking young man, and so doated
en Susy, t ie was never easy out of Ler com-
pany.

It John had no one tomalitain but himself, he
might have been foolish enough to please her, by
dressing fine; but he had an old father and mother
to support, and he thought it would be a sin to
spend a great deal of money en himself, and see
them in want of any thing. I3y hisindustry they
had a good cabin, and were supplied with all the
necessaries of life. They often wished he was well
married, but they advised him never to set his
heart on an extravagant girl, who must be un-
happy when she was obliged to deny herself many
things, in order to support her family, or if she

k-days ¢h

L

 

1 supper.

3 $s ” 1ira 3 3 + IP
| rents, who hiked going to bed early.

 

67

© continued her extravagance, she would soon make
a beggar of him.
~ and many an hour he spent in walking by himself,
© and thinking of the beautiful Susy, on one hand,
and the necessity of economy on the other. When
© he came up to the industrious Esther, he sighed
® heavily.

John was very sensible of this,

“ What ails you, John,” said Esther,
«don’t sigh but send.” ¢ Ah, Esther,” said John,
¢there’s no use in me sending. I'd rather than all

! the world, Susy could like me, but she hates the

~

very sight of me, cven walking the road; you

1 know she does.”

Esther. If you were more sprightly, John,
Susy would like you better. Why don’t you dress
yourself a little airy ; a striped waistcoat and white
stockings would look very smart and taking, on a
young boy like you.

John, 1 can’t afford to be dressing every day ;
and you know itis every day she must see me, if

| she agrees to marry me.

Lsther. Sure enough, John, and you are very

| right to do as you do; she may come round yet,
' Lknow all her people would be very proud to have
| you. 1 Dbeg your pardon for interrupting you, but

it is time for me to go home, and put down the

John.

And I'm sure my supper is ready for me,
and not a bit my poor father and mother would
eat till I come heme to them.

Accordingly, John went to sup with his old pa-

: Esther car-
ried home her linen, and boiled the potatoes for
her father, mother, and brother : while Susy was

«| walking in the cool of the evening, with two or
| three of her gay companions, who delighted in
© shewing their fine dress, after the business of the

day was done.

Next day as Esther was sitting at
her wheel, Susan came in to see her, as she often
did, for want of something else to do. * Susy,” said

 
 

68

Tsther, what came over you, to run off in such a
hurry yesterday evening ?

Susy. Because I knew if I stayed there, I would
hear what I would not like.

Esther. 1 don’t know what ails you at John,
there’s not a likelier boy about the place.

Susy. He's likely enough when he is dressed;
but I like a sprightly boy. John looks as if he
kad as many cares on him as a married man.

ZListher. He has the whole support of a cabin
on him, and only he is my cousin, and that I
would not wish to brag of my relations, cr else I
could tell you more goodness of him than ever I
knew of any young man: but you know he is good
yourself,

Susy. He may be good enough, but he does
not hit my fancy.

Lsther. Well, I wish you may ever get as good.

Esther’s brother, Ned, now came in, and told
them that a poor travelling woman had just
recovered out of a fit, and was too poor to cone
tinue her journey, if the neighbours did not assist
her. Betty Holiday, Esther’s mother, got up
from her knitting, and took a penny out of the
corner of her big box, which she gave Ned; Esther
gave him a halfpenny, and said she would go down
and see the woman immediately. « \Vell, Susy,”
says Ned, «1 won’t affront you, not to ask you
for something.”  « Not a farthing,” she replied,
“ I have in the world, I had to borrow a couple
of tenpennies towards buying my new straw hat.”
Esther and Susy went to sce the poor woman,
who was in great want of linen, Esther ran baek
tor an old shift which had been much mended,
but had not one hole in it. Susy remarked, that it

as well for Esther, she had such full and plenty as
to be able to spare her clothes to the poor, for her
part, she was scarce enough of shifts for herself.
Susy was at this time dressed in a fine muslin gown.
and white petticoat, white stockings, and thin

69

~ shoes with bows in them ; her hair was curled on
© her forehead, and bound with a rich fancy ribbon,
~~ which was tied at one side: nor must her worked
 habit-shirt be forgotten. Every one who stood
© round the poor woman, thought such a well dres-
sed girl might spare her something, and that it
would be much better if she had not spent all her

money on herself, that she might have a little to
giveaway, like Esther: these were also Ned's
thoughts now, that he saw the woman in distress,

| but at other times, he admired Susy, and every
thing she wore, and often wished his sister would
dress as fine. Ned knew Susy’s mind so well about

~ dress, that he spent almost all his wages in buying

fine clothes for himself, which had been much betw

| ter employed, in building a little cabin, grazing
a cow, or providing in some manner for the fue
© ture; Ned was sensible of this himself, but he was
. so much in love with Susy, that he acted contrary
| to his own and his family’s opinion, to please her;
© and she seemed to like him better than John, but

Ned could not ask her to marry him, till he had

a house to bring her to, and something to live on ;

© whereas, John was ready for her any time she
© would take him,

+ her out of his mind, for he never could support

Esther often advised Ned to put

such a wife, and her relations preferred John,

1 ““ Put her out of my mind,” said Ned, ¢ I must
‘put the eyes out of my head, if I do; for every
2tme I see her, she is handsomer than the last
‘time ; and when she smiles at me, I'm bewitched
14 entirely; but I know she never was born to be a
Poor man’s wife, she is quite of another grain;

 

sure her skin is as white as milk, and her hair is
- {as line and glossy as any lady’s, and her teeth as
S oven as if she was under the dentist all her life,

Hike the quality ; and with all that, there is some-

‘thing so genteel about her, and her clothes have

i.) . .
“util an easy-sit upon her fine waist, that mysclf

 
 

 

70

thinks she is an angel; yet I would as soon put my =

hand in the fire, as ask her to inarry me, but |

could not think of any one else. What will become
of me when I see her with her new straw bonnet onl

Why, I'll go out of my senses, if it becomes her
any better than the old one. I teil you, Esther,

I'll quit the country, for it distracts me to ve liv. =
© them.

ing as I am: itis out of the power of any work-

ing man like me to be well dressed every day, and
to provide for a family too; if he does one, he °
ri

can’t do the other.

Esther. Take my advice, and dress like John: 3

then you may lay up by little and little, towards =
he was only going to Dublin; but he told Esther

house-keeping.

Ned. And have Susy looking scornfully at me, ;
as I often saw her look at John! why I woull ©

sooner never meet her again, than she should
give me such a look.

Esther. 1 do not know what you would be at: E

you say you cannot reach at the dress, and provide
for house keeping: and you never can marry, if
you have not something to the fore.
me, what is the good in pleasing, and courting
and distressing yourself for Susy, when you cau
not ask her to marry you?

Ned. No good at all; but I am bewitched
and the short of it is—I will quit the country.

Esther had often endeavoured to persuade her

brother to remain at home, but finding it was of
no use, she had dropped the subject, hoping, that’

her thirty shillings, he could not sleep, for think

ing of her beauty, of her elegance, and of her 3

4
extravagance: one moment, he thought she never®
would do for a poor man’s wife, then he hoped]

i

71

the cares of the world would settle her, and that
she would take delight in saving for her little fa-
mily ; but he had nothing to give her to take care
of, or to save: even if she married him now, they
must take a wretched little cabin; and if they
struggled at the first, how much harder must they
struggle when a helpless family increased about
The conclusion he came to before the
morning of this dismal night, was to go to sea,
as he had heard that the sea-faring life banished
troublesome thoughts from the mind, and that
sailors often returned home rich men.

He pretended to his father and mother, that

his real intention, and no persuasion from her, had
any effect to change his mind. After he had en-
listed in the sea service, he wroie to his parents

~ where he was bound to, and that he hoped to bring

back a full purse, and an easy mind. Ned was

+ the pride of his father and mother: they had al-
© ways indulged him in whatever he wished for,

Now tell &
© darling boy running into the dangers of the sea.

and it was a great grief to them to hear of their

| They gave him up from that moment as lost;
© and it was with great difficulty that Esther could

* comfort them.

When Susy heard of the fine

clever young Ned having gone to sea, she was
© very sorry, and wished it had been John that went

1 n his place; but John was not of that impatient
temper, which can bear no disappointments;

time and his own experience would teach hun tof 3 though he loved Susy as much as Ned did, yet he

be more reasonable ; but he grew fonder of Susy L
every day, and the night after he walked with her} = fcr had the power to make him idle or foolish.

when she wore her new straw bonnet, which cost =

could see her faults, and no desire of pleasing

After Peter and Betty had grieved for the loss
of their beloved son for four months, and had
daily inquired at the post-office for a sea-letter,
the young woman, who attended at th: post ofice,
read to Esther, who was the messenger, the wished
lor superseription.

 
 

 

 

 

72

Peter Holiday, Ballynagh, Townland of Inch.
moleen, County of Kildare, Leinster, Ireland,

To the care of her landlord, Squire Morton, of ]

the Rath—for Esther Holiday. Esther cried out,

the letter was indeed the one she wanted—there

could be no mistake, for one thing matched ano.
ther in the whole direction; and when she heard
it could be bought for a shilling, she wondered
how little they charged for a letter that was worth
so much to them.
she could read writing as well as print, because it
would have been very disagreeable to her to shew
a letter to any one, when she did not know what
it contained.—The letter was as follows :

My dear and tender Esther—that was always
good and kind to me; and I might be with you
all now, if 1 had been advised by you. My dear
Esther, we have cast anchor off Portsmouth, and

a great many of us are sending letters to land, to be

sent off to our people up and down the world. It
frets me often that there’s no way of sending you
a letter off the open sea, for I could write a great
deal to you in" calm weather, when we are idle:
and it frets me still more, that I can’t hear fom

you. I never stop thinking of you all, and how you|

never were tired spinning, or knitting, or wash-
ing, or cleaning the place.
now, and think of you, how neat you used to
iron them for me, and how you used to mend

the least breach : but there’s no use in fretting—

My dear Es-|

¢ we'll sail oe’r the sea in content.”
ther, how are you all; how is my father and mo-
ther, and little Micky and Peggy.

ther, and Micky and Peggy, and all inquiring

How rejoiced was Esther that

I wash my own shirts

 

OY I hope they}
do your bidding, and they'll have luck. This is|
to tell you I am well, and where to direct to me. | 3
Edward Holiday, his majesty’s ship, -the Ad- 1
venturer, off Portsmouth: write soon, or well}
be off. Give my kind love to my father and mo-

7;
{

neighbours,
wishes to Dolly Costello.
brother,

Remember my respectful good
I am your most loving

Epwarp Horipay.

Postscript. It’s well I did not forget to ask how
is Susy Kinchela? I never think of her now, ex-
cept when I'm in low spirits, or when the thought
of sweet Ballinagh comes into m y mind, or when
we sing ¢ Black-eyed Susan,” which is a favou-
rite song with us all. So you may be easy in think-
ing that I've got the better ofit all. I'm very often
dull in myself, but they tell me I'll be a hearty
fellow directly; and so, my dear Esther, you must
think, and tell the neighbours, I'm as happy as a
lord, and hope to see them when I've made my
fortune : but I did not begin yet, for I can’t save
a halfpenny, we are so cordial, and open-hearted
among one another. I hope John Moore is well
and hearty. Doesheever go see Dolly Costello now.
Don’t forget remembering to give my loveto Dolly.

This letter was the occasion of great joy to all
the family, and to those neighbours who heard of
it. Dolly Costello was much surprised that so
fine a young man as Ned should remember a poor
endeavouring girl like her, and Susy Kinchela
was equally surprised, when Esther delivered no
message to her: she declared, he was mighty
lll-natured to forget his old acquaintaince SO
soon, but she supposed he had got new sweet-
hearts in foreign parts, which was always the way
with sailors; at the same time, she was in hopes
that when he returned home, and saw her again,
he would offer all the fine fortune, which he was
to make in his voyage, to her. Not long after
this, Susy ran in to Esther in a great hurry, to
beg she would lend her five shillings, towards buy-
ng a very beautiful muslin from a pedlar. Esther
gdvised her to deal with the neighbours whom she-

D

 
 

 

 

for 4
ia

knew. ¢ 0, said Susy, you never saw such a pattern;
tis a sky-blue colour, and white; and when you
put it between you and the light, there’s a thin
stripe down through it.” Esther remarked thatshe
never met with that sort of a stripe. ¢ Nor L”
- said Susy; it is the most genteel and curious
thing ever was seen in this place. I don’t be-
lieve the Squire’s daughters have the like: there’s
one stripe thick, and another thin, and it has
such a shady look, you cannot think, change-
able like; and, along with that, the pattern is so
genteel.” “It’s not clear to me,” said Esther,
« that it will wear well: the striped muslin aprons
are counted the worst sort for slavery.”
Susy. You know I'll give such a gown as that
no slavery.
Esther.
isold?
Susy. It’s time enough to think of that this
twelve month to come, and may be I'll have some
good fortune before that.
Lsther. Well, Ill lend you the money, but
I would not advise you to buy the gown, for I'm
sure it won’t be serviceable to you. I'd always
like the strong thing that would do for every day
when it was old.
isther went for the money ; Susy saw her little
bag was pretty full, and told her, it was well
for her she was so rich: she wished she had as
heavy a purse, but she never could keep a half
penny. She then ran off to the pedlar, and soon

And what will you do with it when it

+

brought back the gown to shew Isther, who
wished it might wear well. ¢ Now Esther,” says
Susy, “I've one thing to ask you; will you lend
me another crown?

Listher. Indeed 1 can’t spare it.

Susy. Sure you sold your yarn the other day;
and upon my word I'll pay you, when the pig is
cold : there will be a fair next holiday, and my

TT

 

La

a: that; and I’ll be for

holiday came,
the fair.
© Was surrounded by the best dy

_ telegant before: he

Fa
{J

brother promised to
sold.
Listher. 1 hope it i
’ wi] e It 1s not to buy
isthe S uy more fr
pedlar you want the money. : hon
: Susy. 1 wont tell you a lie: it is for
3 gs be has canary-coloured ribbon, with a
jie J a thin stripe like that; and jt would
match the gown so pretty, that I would oive t}
world {or it, and has open work sl or he
1d , s open-work sleeves lls
the royal cob-web, tl . Ty
yi , that are the delic i
yal ec atest things
vou ever laid your ey i
rl esupon, a match:
So yes upon, and so matchable to
Ie . \{ iu 11
dosha, There will be no looking at vou
‘hing you, youll b i d so ten
g you, e so [i ; >
Eiri ne, and so te
Susy.

gveme a guinea when she was

nothing

SeRuaaiiaesinaad

, nor
nderly
woil't have a bit o pride in me for ali
~ th ever obliged to vou if
will lend me the money. Sodse Fyn.
Pale lent the money
to ak for | f,
fo byy = {lank for herself, and to pay the rent for
T father, who nde ; io fi
ei : hi intended to sell the pig for that
D pampiose) she was m hopes he would bu
| big coat for himself, if she paid The
$e ie paid the rent, The
e, and Tom Kinchela took the pict
Susy put on all her fine other a
3
essed young men
As for Jom Moore,

» which she was savin

 

- who walked out that day

2} 5 his S -
| 1 J unda V -clothes Wore 4 ; 3 3

| wear, so he never ventured to cor

asi ne near her:
© he remarked to Lsther, th Botte

a FOF Co EF
5a ’ he never saw her so
ae added, that she must be indus-
eho » Or she could not buy so many {ine
othes,  Iusther answered, that she oy
o1rl, « : : y Lal she was a smar
fu, and her brether was very kind to her EB
wobt in hi 4 . my a
pay oo 1 bis own mind, that Tom had bett p
a < ; < Ler
pre hash than be making presents to his sje
Ws at a peed money from him that
: ng out at the fair, in cas 1d 130
; ) air, in case he did 1
ig ] u not
Pig; besides an old balance he owed Ling
~ 14432

 

: sell his

 
 

 

 

76

for potatoes since last year; but neither John nor | | !

Lsther spoke of their debts, whatever they might |
ji day, as John Moore was walking about | =
his business from one field to another, with a |
spade on his shoulder, and dressed in his working
clothes, he met the elegant and captivating Se; I
leaning on a rich farmer’s son, who was leac ing |

his horse, from which he had dismounted, in oF
der to have the pleasure of Susy’s company. 8 te 8
did not seem to know John, which indeed, wo 4
partly owing to her own bashfulness, and pattly| |
to pride. John was not so mean-spirited 0s jo nd |]
onder the weight of any one’s contempt : he 4] 4
never been treated so coolly by Susy before, and J
he persuaded himself, that the farmer’s son way
courting her, and that she would surely accept o
him. All these considerations together, deter.|

mined him only to think of Susy as a girl entirely

his reach, and to endeavour to be content|
a her. John had great reason for eons)
for his industry and kindness rendered his o
parents so comfortable, that he delighted to i
them, and to receive their blessing. When he lay

 

down at night, he had no weight on his CORSE] ence
he owed nobody any thing, nor was the ia 0
making any person unhappy; and when ) e got u
in the morning, he went cheerfully to ; lis wo |]
A wife might have been an addition to his enjoy 4
ment, but he considered himself much better & ;
as he was, than to be married to an SSiravers i
irl. ‘When his old mother had more to do t i !
usual, Esther came to her assistance; for it » 3
her greatest pleasure to be of use to hose w "5
wanted her. When John had made up his 4 ‘
never more to think of Susy, he informed Est 2
but she begged of him not to give her up Sr
for she was in hopes the cares and troubles o fw
world would settle her, and make her know |

 

77

scIf; and ¢ I dare say,” she added, “that if vou
have a little patience, she will marry you yet.”
“ No,” said John; <I would not marry her this
minute if’ she was to ask me; sheis too iety quite
entirely for me. She is as fine lecking as an
lady, and I'm sure she thinks herself a real lady ;
and it would befoolish in me to think she would take
care of my cabin, or to bring her to it if she wished
it: sheand I are ent out for quite different sort of
people; awd she is so scornful, that I never wisly
to sce her face. Ihope it may all turn out right,
and that young Mr. Knox may have a real notion
of her.

Esther. It is the first I heard of it, John, Si
ty was telling me how Mr. Knox made her
walk with him, and hew she met you, and was
ashamed of her life of you, and could not speak
to you; but she did not seem to have a good opi~
nion of Mr. Knox.

Join. 1 won't say a word to injure any man’s
character, but I'm fixed in the resolution, never
to think more of Susy, though I know she is not
a bad sort; but we never could be happy toge-
ther,

When Tom Kinclela came from the fair,
Susy asked him for the money he promised her,
but Tom declared he owed every farthing of it
to John Moore, and had paid it to him, as he
was the first person he met with coming home.

Susy. Sure Tom you promised it to me, How
could you disappoint me?

Tom. 1 told you if I could spare the money
you should have it; but you know I could nog,
sce myself in debt, and give it to you for foolish-
ness,

Susy. Foolishness |
Holiday ten shillings,

1 om. More shame for you; you wanted no--
thing, I wonder you have not consideration liks

Itell you I owe Esther

 
 

78

another ; but you care for nothing but dress. I
would not wish for a great deal you should borrow
money from E. Holiday, or any one else. What
could you want?

Susy. 1 wanted a Sunday gown, and I got one
too, a great bargain.

Tom. 1 know you have gowns in plenty, but
if you earned your money, that is nothing to
any one, but to go in debt was a burning shame. I
have the rent coming over me directly, so I must
save all my earning for that; and you must pay
poor Esther as you can. :

Susy. How would I pay her, sure I have no
way of making money. :

Tom. You may spin and knit like Isther:
sure we might live as snug as any farming people,
if you put your hand to work like another girl.
We have neither chick nor child to maintain,
and vet I can hardly keep the house over us.

Susy. don’t know what is the reason, some
people have the knack of getting rich.

Tom. I know the reason very well; it is no-
thing in the world else, but that we spend as fast or
faster than we earn. Poor people should never
be idle, and should not throw about their money
as if they had estates: and as for going in debt,

though I did it once or twice, yet it is the worst
of all; for itis no easy matter for a working man
to pay for the past, as well as the present, let alone
‘the time to come, that he cught to be laying uy
for. :

Susy.

Spinning is a very bad business; many
is the long day I'd be gathering ten shillings spin-
sing or knitting either. :
+ r . Fh 1 be
“om. Thenmany is the long day you ought to be
spending it: if you don’t choose to spin or knit,

vou must do something cise. There is plenty of
harvest work now, you had better go to that.

x5

 

 

79

Sorely did Susy repent buying the gown and
ribbon now, for she was too honest to think of
being in debt without striving to pay, and she
knew her brother who was very fond of her, would
never have asked her to work, if she had not been
in debt. Now Susy had not worked in the field
for several years; it hurt her pride to ask for
work, and what was worse, she had not an y clothes
fit for hardship : however necessity obliged her to
gobindcorn. She put on her old straw bonnet, and
the oldest gown and petticoat, shoes and stockings,
that she had : but before night her feet were blis-
tered through her thin shoes with the stubbles
fier gown was worn in the arms, and torn in dif-
lerent parts, and the front of her long white
petticoat was dangling about her feet; and trod
upon as she stooped over the sheaves. She was
sorely mortified and grieved at these disasters, and
every day she was in still worse condition. Esther
heard of her misfortunes, and after commendine
her industry, told her she would lend her a strono
petticoat to work in, till she could eet one for
herself. Susy said she feared it would be long
before she could buy any thing for herself; she
then told Esther her disappointment about the
pig, and begged she would trust her for a few
weeks, Esther said she certainly would not be
too hard on her, but that she was much dis-
appointed not to be able to pay her father’s rent :
for she was so sure of being paid that she bought
a cloak for herself: and if she had known that
Susy could not pay her at the appointed time, she
would not have bought the cloak till the winter.
“1 wonder, said Susy, you would buy a cloak:
a jock is a great deal more becoming and dressy-
file” Esther said she could not afford to have
both cloak and jock, and the cloak was the most
useful. Poor Susy wore out all her delicate gowns
oie alter another at the harvest, except the tri ped

 
 

B80

muslin which she bought from the pedlar, and
which troubled her every time she saw it: and
before she wore it many Sundays and holidays, it
was burst and torn in several places : and the first
time that she put on her fine bonnet, which was
ornamented and tied with bows of the canary
coloured ribbon, the day turned out wet, and her
ribbon looked more like flimsy rags than fine stiff
bows, for she had no cloak to cover her bonnet:
she now remembered that Esther preferred a cloak
to a great coat, when she could not have both;
and it was very plain to the repenting Susy, that
when people cannot have every thing in high style,
it is better to dress plain and be all of a piece.
Many misfortunes convinced her of this : her thin
shoes were unable to bear the strong stubbles, the
stony ficld-roads, or the heavy clay, and her
white stockings were dirtied so soon, that instead
of looking the genteelest girl in the field. she looked
the most wretched and untidy, and was indeed a
complete slattern. When she had earned ten shil.
lings, she very honestly brought it home to Iisther,
with many thanks and apologies, but Esther said
she could do without it till winter, and begged that
she would buy some kind of strong gown and
shoes for herself. Susy was very grateful for
Esther’s goodness, and felt how much superior
Esther was to her. « How kind,” said she to her
brother, can Esther be, because she has been
frugal, but I can do nothing for any one, because
I have been extravagant.” Tom was so well
pleased with his sister’s improvement, that he made
her a present of a stuff gown and a pair of strong
shoes, and desired that she would pay Esther im-
mediately, which she accordingly did. Susy had
been so little accustomed to hardship, that she was
too weary when she came home at night, to mend
her clothes, or to do any thing but sit over the
ashes: and she felt herself so humbled that she

 

densa ae be ie

4
-
1
Fy
=

 

81

could not hear to go near her old companions, so:
that she was very low spirited, and often wished:
“that she was like Esther, who was never idle and
~ celdom fretted, but she had got such a habit of’
idleness and extravagance, that she did
how to begin to be economical, and though Esther:
© advised her to stay at home and spin,
| going out to pick potatoes, when the season ad—
"vanced, she could not settle her mind to spin, but
thought what little she earned in that way was.
~ worth nothing.
cold when the potatoes were digging, and Susy:
was neither as bardy or as well prepared as the:
~ other women, se she
obliged to take to her bed. She had always been.
"so careless, that she had never attended much to:
~ her neighbours in their sickness or troubles, and.
© now she did not know who to send for; but Tom:
© said, he knew Esther was “a friend in need,” and.
~ he would bring her to see his sister.

not know

instead of

"Fhe weather was very wet and

got a severe cold, and was:

Tom was right, for during five weeks that Susy:

~ was very ill, not a day passed that Esther did not:
| visit her, and comfort her, and bring something:
"with her, and even lent her a blanket; and when.
she got up,. she made her. a present of a pair off

yarn stockings and flannel waist coat of her own:

spinning, and when Susy expressed her trouble:
that Esther should give her little things to her,
who, she said, was unworthy of them, Esther
replied, « What have I them for but to use thems.
and sure there is no one I would sooner help than.
my old friend? You know we ought never to see:
our fellow creatures in distress, if we can relieve:
them.” Tom was long an admirer of Esther’s,.
but her attention to his sister touched him so.
nearly, that one evening while she was asleep, and
Esther sat with him by the fire watching her, he:
took the opportunity of telling her how much he:

was attached toher, Esther thought Tem a vesF

Dp 2

 
 

 

82

good young man, but she did not scruple telling
him that she could not think of entering into the
cares of the world till both he and she had some-
thing before hand. ¢ You are right,” said he, ‘and
it was that notion that kept me from speaking to
you leng ago, and now I am out of debt, and I
hope to save a little, if you wont forbid me your
company.” From this time Tom and Esther
often talked over their affairs, and he was more
anxious than ever to be industrious and saving,
As for Susy, it was long before she recovered,
Esther told her cousin John, how it would make
his heart ache to see the beautiful Susy weak and
shabby, sitting on a little stool by the fire, with
an old night-cap covering her fine hair, and a
thread-bare coat thrown over her elegant shoul-
ders, while she strove to knit a coarse stocking
for Tom with her feeble hands ; for Esther had
convinced her that by working a little at a time
there was something done, and that there was no
waste so bad as waste of time, which we never
can recall. Susy had so many proofs of the good
of economy and industry, and the evil of ex-
travagance, that Esther feared she would exert
herself beyond her strength. The description
which John heard of that elegant form which had
made so deep an impression on his mind, when
in the bloom of health and beauty, so touched
him, now that she was languishing and repenting,

hy

that he begged leave to see her and was admitted.
Neither of them conversed a great deal, they were
too much affected to speak, but John called Tom
out and asked him was there any thing he had in
the world he could give him. Oh John, says
Tom, you are too good : they may say what they
will, but being saving never makes any one stingy:
it is those who spend their money in foolishness
on themselves, that have nothing for any one else.

John. 1 can’t offer you much Tom, but what
I have you are welcome to it: you know we are

OM his
ssituinidilem Benda REESE

 

hog

WRERRSNES

Ses

 

5 IY
i» J
4

de.

Tom said, he did not know of any thing he
wanted: if his poor sister was once well and
hearty again, he would be quite happy. a

« That she may be well and hearty is my wish
above all things on this earth,” said John ; and
away he went, indulging hopes that he might yet
have Susy for his own; but John was not of that
hasty disposition to depend upon good appearances
and sudden alterations ; so he determined not to
tell his mind to any one, till he had for a long
time observed a steady improvement in Susy: he
went very frequently te the house, and behaved
in so cool and careless a manner, that no one
suspected his intention. At this time Tom was
impatient to make his little property worthy the
acceptance of the prudent Esther, who did not
think that a man and his wife could support them-
selves and their children upon love, without some-
thing more substantial, and Susy was as anxious
as Tom for the match; for she was of an affec-
tionate and grateful disposition, when these feel-
ings were not stifled by vanity, which renders
people so selfish that they cannot think of others
as they ought. By the advice of Esther, Susy
did not often go out te work, but staid in the
house spinning or knitting, or making and mend-
ing her and her brother’s clothes: for she found
that when she was in the field, she wore cut her
clothes faster than she could mend them, and every
thing of Tom’s went to rack besides. It may be
a useful piece of information to those people who
think that the extravagant are open-hearted and
generous, and that the economical are stingy,
to relate, that all the time Susy was lavishing
her money in buying fine clothes, throwing stir-
about to the dogs, or broth down the channel,
that she seldom or ever relieved a poor person im

 
84

distress, because indeed she had nothing to spare;
for when all the money was spent, or the victuals
thrown away, or the clothes worn to rags for want
of mending, she was too idle or proud to earn
more: but now that she took care of every thing,
and was always earning, she had a little to spare
for the distressed, and she did not despair of
being as rich after, for « the diligent hand maketh
rich,” and pulls up all losses.

When Tom’s acquaintance said that he was
grown very worldly minded, he declared that his
mind was more disturbed with worldly thoughts
when he was in debt, or fretting at providing no-
thing for the future, than now that he was sure,
if sickness or any common misfortune happened
him, he would not be a burthen on his neighbours,
nor be in any danger of want; and he hoped that
by the blessing of Providenee, he would not grow
proud, or hard-hecarted by having plenty. Susy
found her mind so much more content since she
became industrious and economical, that she had
lost all inclinations for her former bad habits, and
John Moore had the pleasure to observe that for
six months, she was daily improving in good con-
duct; and though her appearance did not attract
SO many eyes as formerly, yet nobody made the
disagreeable remarks which they used to do, and
John thought she looked even more beautiful with
a plain neat cap over her hair, which was parted
on her forehead, than when it was either curled
and adorned like a lady’s, or else so blowsed, that
he often turned his eycs away from her in disgust.
At length John told his parents that he had a
great liking to look for a wife, and asked them
whom they would recommend : upon which they
immediately thought of Doliy Costello, who had
always been a girl to their mind : and her grand-
mother had just died and left her all she had, so
that Dolly was the richest girl in the neighbour-

 

85

i hood, and many people as well as John's father
and mother, expected he would propose for her, as
. it was long understood that he thought no more of

Susy: but John was not of a fickle disposition ;
a nd even if he had entirely banished Susy from

' his mind, yet it would not have been easy for him

to turn his affections to another, ¢ No,” says John,
“I have no notion of marrying for money : and
since I did not think of Dolly till she became rich,
I won’t think of her now, though she is a ve
good girl, and he will be the happy boy that pleases
her.”

“ Well, well,” says her mother, “I would never
have you to marry against your own liking : more
especially as I know you'll never like what is not
good and proper.” ¢ Syre enough,” said the old
man, “ why should not he please himself, after
pleasing us so long, and may be we could make
out to live in the little cabin there below that
Morgan Keogh left.”—¢ You live in that little
damp hovel, where you would be drowned to
death ”” said John—s¢¢'N 0, nc: I'll bring no woman
into this cabin that won’t look up to my father and
nother as her own: that would be the poor mar-
rying for me, to see you leit in your old age, with-
out any one to do a hand’s turn for you. Thank
Providence that blessed my endeavours, there’s

room enough for us all.” Was it not a blessed

4 hour I bore him I” said Nelly to her husband :

“ there’s none need fret at the trouble of rearing

£ children.” —«Now,” said John, ¢ don’t say a word
~~ about it: what less could I do for you? Did you
. turn me out of your house when I could do nothing

for myself, though you had no reason to be grate-
ful to me? but 1 owe every thing to you—it was

| You taught me to work, and showed me how to
Wun every thing I earned to the best advantage.”

After this, John ventured to tell them of his
clvice, and how improved she wasto a certainty ;

 
 

&¢

they said they hoped she was improved, and
indeed it was much wanting, for she was fit for
neither a poor nor a rich man formerly. ¢ Let
us forget the past,” said John, ¢ Jisther knows
she is quite an altered girl.” Soon after this
John took an opportunity of telling his mind to
Susy ; and her opinion was so altered about plain
looking men, as well as every thing else, that she
listened to his proposals; and it was agreed that
she should stay with Tom till Esther came home
to him; after which she might be married, and
Esther be the mistress of her wedding. Things
were thus arranged, when Ned Holiday came home
from sca, and surprised his family by his wretched
appearance. He told them a long story of the
good success he shared at first, and how he could
not be so poor spirited as not to be jovial like his
comrades: and when the tide turned against them,
“Tow they still lived in hopes of better success,
which never came, though he struggled through
many a hard gale for it; « and now,” says he,
«¢ I'll anchor here for a while, and see what sort
of weather is brewing for me.” His mother told
him he was very foolish not to lay by a little
money when he had it in plenty, against the hard
times;—to which he answered, thatwhen the hard-

ship was to come there was no keeping it off. f
¢ Did you never hear,” said his father, ‘that long f°

threatened famine never comes? 1 have found it
so, for whenever I saw the meal and potatoes run-
ning low, I spared them, and kitchened them,

all IT could, and never was run out of them till |S
the new came in.” ¢ I'm sare,” said Ned, ¢ that 8
is the best plan both by sea and land; but some g=
how the breezy air, and the fine fresh smell of f=
the sea, gives us such an appetite, and such fine fs
heart, that we ncver think of danger till it comes B28

right a head of us: and then we fight with it 2
‘well as we can. But let us say no more of ow

87

troubles—tell me is any one married that J know
or 1s my one courting, or are you lving ina Jeodd
al if you are, I know how to tow you out of
“ We have great work,” said old Peter, it’s not
one wedding will satisfy us, but we must have tw
and it’s not one out of one family, and one out of
another, but we have two out. of one family
Ned's heart beat, for he felt all the dieiont kin Is
of delight, which a sailor feels at landine on his
native soil, when he pictures to himself the os
ing so soon with his father, mother, brothers. sis-
ters, and the dear girl of his heart. When "Ned
first Jumped upon land, he thought of the lovel
“ black eyed Susan,” but his heart fell when h
recollected his present poverty, which exceed 1
that which drove him to sea: and as he was i
the man who can find but one sort of ha Li iy
he turned his mind from Susy to his relat 4
he was sure would joyfully receive him, forlorn a
he was, and he was not disappointed ; nor did his
uneasiness return till he heard of the weddin X
he was afraid to ask if Susy was one of the bri
but he was not long in suspense, for his little Sis
ter Polly, who told him all the news she could
think of, when ever the rest of the familv let h
speak, told him the whole plan of the ro Tn
dings, Ned was much surprised indeed, that the
gay and airy Susy should be the taste of john
Hoes and still more that Le should ;
o ArT a rey ’ ]
i
Tod, Thus clog had be leh and tormented
WR il ago, ent ed the cabin, in a plain
Wi fo se dress, with her knitting in her hand,
} a Jeb Sage to eploy her on the road, and
rh staid in the cabin. Ned grew pale at
; 4 %. 4 of her; and was in no humour for telling
Sn Myenguags thy whole wight offer, but every
y, i ay of his sister's wedding, he thought

be her’s ;

 
$8

Jess of his disappointment, and was as merry as
any one at the supper; and at Susy’s wedding he
was more cheerful than any one else, apd advised
every young man present to be saving and clever
like John Moore, and not suffer themselves to be
outcast batchelors like him. Dolly Costello
was at the wedding, and was observed to discourse
a good deal with Ned, so that people began to
joke with him about her. Ned said indeed it was
the best plan any one ever struck out for him, to try
to coax Dolly; ¢ there can be no harm,” said he,
« in popping the question in a civil way, and if she
won’t share her fortune with me, 1 must veer
about to some other point,” Ned lost no time,

he popped the question the very next day, while
Dolly was spinning wool as hard as if she had not
a farthing. ¢ Ah,” thought Ned, ¢ this is the

irl has thrift enough for two of us, and money

besides—a venture! a venture!” He ventured,
and he won, for Dolly admired his air, and had
little doubt of her money being sufficient to sup-
port a family : she also hoped that a settled lite,
would make a settled man of Ned; but her father
was against the match, and told her it was fitter
for her to take Phil Brophy, ¢ who,” he said,
« was a snug lump of aboy,” and had a bit of land,
with a handful of corn, and plenty of every thing
that could be wanting in a farmer’s house. Dolly
could not bear to hear of Phil, and insisted that
there was no occasion for both the boy and the

irl to have money ; her father agreed that there
was not, if they were both frugal and industrious,
and that one of them had met with some misfor-

of a gentleman, let alone what Dolly had. How-
ever, Dolly took her own way, and was married
to Ned; but she very soon repented not taking

89

her father’s advice, for Ned and she had an ar-
| qument every day about extravagance. Ned
thought the money should not lie idle. Dolly said
it was going so fast, they would soon have nothing.
Ned could not bear to have a thing and want it.
4 Dolly thought they ought to save something for
the time of need, when they might have occasion
to spend more than was earned. Ned always con-
cluded the argument with, ¢ ’twill be all one a
. hundred years hence,—there’s no use in frettin

now, let us enjoy ourselves.” And he did so,
while the money lasted: but Dolly’s fears were
soon realized, fer before they had two children,
~ there was not a poorer couple in the neighbour-
~ hoed; and only for the extreme industry and
economy of Dolly, assisted by the generosity of
John and Iisther, they must have starved, for
Ned spent all the money he could get at, in the ale

+4 - O . .
~ house; for he had learned that shocking kind of

| extravagance and brutal self-gratification while at
sea; his health was so injured by this course of

life, that he had little strength to work. Dolly
| found that it was too late to attempt reforming a
. man after marriage, and, that instead of the cares of
| the world settling the mind of an extravagant man,
they only drive him to despair, which he vainly

attempts to be cured of in the ale-house. Tom

. Kinchela and his sister Susy were happily reformed

before the welfare of a young family depended on

them, they continued to practise that economical

- conduct which contributed to their own happiness,

| enabled them to be of service to their neighbours,

* and ensured them comfort in their old age, and

relief in sickness,
. . 1, a
tune which could not be helped ; but he said that §
one extravagant man or woman, was enough tof
empty the longest purse that ever was in the hands B=

 

 
EARLY TRAINING.

Ricuarp and Kitty Ilanagan lived in a country
part of the province of Leinster, in a small cabin,
which Richard had built before he married, on a
quarter of an acre of ground that his master set
him at a moderate rent. Richard had never ad-
dicted himself to idling, or keeping company with
foolish or drunken people; but as he knew how
to read, he amused himself in this manner at night,
and on Sundays and holidays. Mr. Harvey, Lis
master, was a plain, though a well-bred and sen-
sible man, and Richard said he always found him
so agreeable and easy spoken to, that he would
rather ask him a question about what he met in his
book, than the sehool-master of the parish: for
this reason, it was Richard’s practice, when Mr.
Harvey stood by him at his work, to ask him the
meaning of what he did not understand; and his
master was so_ pleased with Richards desire to
ebtain information, that he would sometimes hold

labouring man.
| Kitty, was simply this; to be steadily industrious
and frugal, suffering nothing to be wasted or de-
| stroyed ; to do every thin
and when his children were able to perform any
kind of work, to put them to it; and though this
~ part of the plan may seem the most trifling, yet

S51

along conversation with him, on subjects that
i concerned the good and happiness of mankind ;
Land when he mentioned what would contribute
most to the advantage of our own country, Rich-
. ard’s attention was more particularly drawn to what
concerned himself so nearly.
| made a lasting impression on Richard’s mind,
- and put him on considering how he might reduce
| to practice those plans of living and good manage-
ment, which Mr. Harvey told him would probably
| help him to provide for a large family and secure
for his old age a comfortable repose.
= pect he feared was too fine to be realized by a poor
man, who had but a quarter of an acre of ground,
| ond whose family was encreasing so fast, that he
feared the best concerted plans would not avail.
. Inorder to forward Richard’s success, Mr. Harvey
"did not recommend the trial of the lottery, or ot
. any other game of chance, nor a dependance on

These conversations

Such a pros-

i the patronage of the rich, nor did he flatter him-
with the prospect of rising above the station of a

His advice to both Richard and

g In its proper season,

it was upon this, that Richard built his principal

hopes, for he knew that a great many mouths will
. swallow up all a poor man’s earnings, but a great
. many little hands could perform work, which
~ though it might amount to little at first, would in

some time, exceed all that he could do himself. .
“ And you ought to remember, Richard,” said
Mr. Harvey, ¢ that there are just twice as many
hands as there are mouths in a family, therefore
there must in time, be more earned than could be
consumed, if the same economy be still observed.”

 
 

 

92

Richard’s reading gave him a love of gener
knowledge, which created in his mind, a ha.
bit of reasoning and calculating ; and the best
calculators have always found that indastry
and economy leads to wealth. Reugh and
common industry preduce rough plenty, which is
wealth to the Inbourer; and though the more po.
lished arts of industry may produce more money,
yet the polished citizen or artist does not find him.
self more at ease drinking his tea er his wine, than
the labourer does when he has plenty of stir-about
and milk. As Richard was not foolishly ambi.
tious, nor hoped to raise wealth by magic, or by
any other means than labour, so the prospect was
cheering to him, and so pleased was he with his
calculations on industry, that he was charmed
with the prospect of having a great many children,
instead of lamenting the hardship of supporting

a
them. The day after Kitty lay-in of her third

daughter, Richard met Paddy O’Ryan, who asked

him what had God sent this time. ¢ Another
fine daughter, Paddy,” answered he. ¢ Myself
wonders at your patience,” says Paddy, ¢to reckon
three daughters and but one son; why, if Judy
served me that way, I would not speak to her for
a month!” ¢ Don’t say that,” says Richard,
¢ there’s no help for such things; but let that be
as it will, I am quite content and happy to haw
another danghter : all 1 wish, is that she may take
after her mother, and make as good a wife to some
endeavouring man.” ¢ But I tell you,” says
Paddy,  there’s no good in daughters, they can
earn nothingtill they go to service, and then all goes
to put clotheson them, that they may take theheart
of some poor fool. For my share, I would not
give my Phil, for all the girls in the county; aye,
and the next one to it; I' will give Phil an educa-
tion to make him a gentleman, for all the O’Ryan’s
have thick blood running through their veins

93

though the hardship and poverty are enough to
thin it, but I feelit thick and strong at my heart.”
Richard commended Paddy’s notion of sending
Phil. to school, but he knew his neighbour’s obsti-
~ nacy and foolish pride too well, either to advise
. him about the conducting of his family, or even
to tell him his intention with regard to his own.

Paddy was proud and ignorant : no reasoning of

| any depth could penetrate his heart, nor was his

mind te be changed by what he called new no-

tions: his favourite maxim was to act like a true

born Irishman, and his lazy wife was as well in-

clined to follow his example, as Kitty was to assist

lichard in whatever was likely to turn cut to their

advantage.

While Kitty was rearing very small children,
she had not time to do any thing, but keep the
cabin in order, dress the victuals, weed the gar-
den, mend and make all the clothes they wore,
and spin wool to be woven into frieze, or linsey,
or flannel, or to make into yarn for knitting stock-
ings, so that she earned no money towards the
support of the family, but she spent Richard’s
earning with the greatest economy, and made the
most of every thing that the garden produced.
They had all the misfortunes common to poor
people, such as wet days, when Richard could
not work abroad, sickness, which at different
times went through the family, and scarce sum-
mers, when a day’s hire would not buy potatoes
enough for the family ; so that without some sud-
den good fortune, which Richard never looked
for, they could not be any other than struggling
poor people; yet Richard was not discouraged, nor
did he ever lose sight of his plan of the general and
united industry of his family setting them at ease,
and enabling him to lay up a sufficiency for old
age; and when he saw his good wife oppressed
with the toil and anxiety which are common to

 
 

 

94

mothers, he desired her to keep up her spirits, for
that he had no doubt but Providence would bless
their endeavours to gain an honest livelihood,
Such pious encouragement raised Kitty's hopes,
and gave her fresh vigour to rear those children,
which one day, she was persuaded, would be the
comfort of her life; and nothing contributed so
much te make her cheerfully fulfil her duties, as
the constant industry and sobriety of Richard,
When little Ned, their eldest child, was six or se-
ven years old, Kitty often employed him: he watch-
ed the other children when she went to wash pota-
toes, or do any thing out of the house: he went
messages: he weeded the garden, and in short,
was so much assistance to her, that she had now
leisure to spin flax for their own wear, instead of
laying out her money in the shops; and as both
she and Richard could read, they taught him at
home. Mary soon came on to be able to assist
her mother: she was two years younger than her
‘brother; but as it is more natural for girls to do
house business, so she was more useful at six than
he was at seven. She not only swept the house,
and helped Ned to carry baskets of potatoes and
turf, and small tubs of water, but she had learned
to use her needle, and was set by her mother to
do all kinds of easy sewing. Such little assist-
~ance was not despised by Kitty: she knew, that
every day she would gain more strength and cle-
verness ; but her greatest pleasure was to think,
that they were learning what would be hereafter
useful to them, a habit of industry, which, like
-other habits, is not easily got rid of; for she was
brought up to industry herself, and could not bear
to be idle. Their neighbours Paddy and his wife
often laughed at Kitty, for pretending to be assisted
by such good for nothing brats, and pitied the
poor children, they said, to be put to work at a
time, that they should have nothing to trouble then.

- hegot? and he hoped he w
after all this learning, and not be beholden to
labour to earn his bread : but Richard, who was a
man of sense, was informed by reading, and

. Paddy’s children were not troubled with work,
~ hut they were greatly troubled with idleness, for
they spent their time in vexing each other, and in
provoking their father and mother, or the neigh-
. bours to beat them, as they were foremost in all
kinds of mischief.
~ «chool every day, was an exception.
spend his play hours at Richard’s, where he saw
. cvery body happy and cheerful: and as Richard
was fond of learning, he used to talk to Philip
about the school, and what he was reading.
lip had equal satisfaction on his part, for at home
there was not any one that understood those things.
~The only thing his father talked of, was whether

Indeed Philip, who went to
He liked to

Phi-

the master was very wicked ? how many floggings

uld be a gentlemen

o

 cnlightened by conversing with his good master,
- Mr. Harvey, used to tell Philip, that he must try
| tomake a good use of his learning. ¢ Ifit makes
vou proud or idle,” he used to say, ¢ you might

ius well be ignorant; for you will gain more re-

spect by your good conduct and industry, than
(by all the learning your master could give you.”
= . > . = . .

i addy did not send any of his children to school

but Philip, for he thought it sufficient to have one
centleman in his family, to carry down the thick
“lood of the O’Ryans in a proper style, and that
this might be done in perfection, he determined
10 leave to Philip all he had in the world, and let
Sie other children shift for themselves.

© But to return to the affairs of Richard and
bitty,

# When Mary was ten years old, Kitty found she
fF vwould have time to carn something for the support
dot the family, by taking in work. In such a re-
Wote part of the country as she lived in, she did

 

 
96

not expect more profitable work than spinning
linen yarn. She knew that there was very little to
be earned by spinning, but Richard agreed with
her that small gains are not to be despised by poor
eople. Accordingly, Kitty asked Mrs. Harvey
if she wanted any spinning to be done. ¢ No,”
said Mrs. Harvey; “I find I can buy linen cheap.
er in the shop than I can make it; for the charge
of spinning and weaving is so high in the country,
that the linen is quite unreasonable.” Kitty re.
turned to her husband with this discouraging ac
count, but Richard advised her to go again, and
offer to spin for Mrs. Harvey for whatever she was
willing to pay. Although the weaving was stil
an objection, yet the persevering wish to be indus
trious, which Kitty shewed, encouraged Mus,
Harvey to send for a quantity of flax, and give i
te her to spin. In the course of a month it was

surprising to Kitty how much she spun, though

she only sat down to the wheel when she had no-
thine else to do; but she was still gaining more
leisure. Little Nedook the entire care of the
garden from her, besides putting his hand to many
things which used to keep her busy. Mary often
held the youngest child; she was now a nice littl
worker at the needle, and Esther her sister, was
come to be of great service both at the needle
running of messages, washing the potatoes, and
cleaning the house; so that every month Kitty
found that she spun more than the last. Mary
often wished to spin, but her mother would nd
let her touch the lady’s fine flax.  ¢ Wait, Mar
and I will get you a wheel for yourself before i
is very long, and you can spin shirts and shift
for the family.”
Mary thought of this promise every day,
every hour, and often asked her mother when

would get the wheel.

and
she

; n IT

I Pin for themselves, as well
tes oY ed to tell her so; but Judy said indeed

; of them had time to spin the linsey, let alone

BE De
: puny a day was better than nothing.
£ Uy answered, that there was people and

Kitty told her as soon #§
Bittle Pooo
5 CoOoV WwW . 4 ] a
: ggy was able to do a great many thing:

97

she could afford it, but the money was still wanted
for one use or other. Richard longed as much as
Mary to see her spinning, and thought how de-
lightful it would be to hear the noise of two wheels
together, and the young voice of his daughter as
she sung at it. Determined not to delay gratify-
ing himself and his daughter, he begged oF Kit,

to leave four-pence a week with Mrs. Harvey A
he would leave a shilling a week towards payin the
wheels In six or seven weeks the wheel was Ar,

and great was the joy of the family to see it brought
into the cabin : Mary now sat down to her flax

which she drew to about eighteen cuts to the
pean 3 and she did not like to stir from her wheel
rom morning till night. Kitty thought she must
soon tire of it at this ratc ides t asi

ar s rate, besides the business
1 fell to her share must not be neglected, so

3 1c only allowed her to spin a few hours every
day. Kitty had got the name of working so Ret

8 that much more work w :
Pw e work was brought to her than she

= Judy O’Ryan, her neighbour, told her
she would give hers fl 1
some flax to spin, but that she

: could not think of lying out of the money till the

>

arn ¢ ’ 1

yo Soa be wove.’ Kitty wondered Judy and
ighters, who were older than her’s, would

as for hire, and

| flax oF
i: C 3 and if . !
| sorry to sn they had itself, she would be very
oo spin for hire at the rate Kitty did: there
Ver was g 4 . v : v
or five is an O’Ryan box n to work for four-pence
pence a day. Kitty said she thought a
Judy

& people, > her !
People, “and for her part she would scorn it, and

Paddy w i
3 dy as of her mind. It was not very long till
the I'lanigans had thr i y : 3
ps a 1ad three wheels; Kitty and Mary
oi I $

or hire, and Esther spun for the family, as

rE

 

 
98

The family was now in a very
and Richard was one of the
his garden flourished, and every
A more experience how to manage
This little crops ; Ned shewed a taste for gardening
and for reading, besides he was very diligent in his
master’s business, for Mr. Harvey hired him
to work with his father. At after hours Ned made
a little bower in the corner of his garden, where
he planted every tree and flower which he thought
most beautiful, and Mrs. Harvey was kind
‘enough to give him slips and seeds for this purpose,
On a Sunday in summer, Ned took his book to
this bower, and read either to himself, or to his
sisters. Philip was often of the party, and was
«0 charmed with the bower, that he was resolved
to make one at the back of his father’s house.—
Added to the pleasure and advantage which
Richard had in his garden, he had the daily
catisfaction of seeing three wheels merrily turn in
his own cabin: the songs of his two daughter
gave him as much delight as great people find at
fine and expensive entertainments ; and to crown
his happiness, his wife lay-in of a son. There was
never any thing more to be admired, nor mor
worthy to be taken notice of, than the neatnc
and quietness of the house, while Kitty ws
recovering from her lying in. A little windov
curtain was drawn to shade the light from her
weak eves: her finest patch-work quilt, which she
made while she was at service, was spread on the
bed: the child was dressed in a white frock, which
Kitty always kept for these state occasions : every
person in the house walked on tip-toes. Mar
kept a pot of gruel hanging over the embers, ant
had an eye to all the concerns of the cab
Ysther was sometimes allowed to nurse her littl
brother, Peggy brought in the turf, and run?
errands, the youngest girl was kept quiet by tht

“about the house.
prosperous way,
rappiest of men:
year taught him

§

8 R:ichar
| Richard, he used to explain to hi

ssuceess of his plans,
Reans ori
Resins grieved extremely for the d

§ good example and advice of her

longed for his mother to be w

Co igi

F

~ perienced es
1 » when we see the success

Sa

| by the death of
[ness and condescension ende
and whose

# Accordingly, Richard took mop

99

sisters. Ned
ell enough to taste

some of the vegetables his garden produced, and

in the mean time he br

snd gaverroreto he o a her flowers to smell,

for joy that he had S to decorate the cabin

iis hs v ¢ had got a brother. Richard 1

- Kitty had that satisfaction which is always oo
» r X -

inthe ar oy had sown the seeds of indicts
= ds of their children, and thev w y
ally reaping the reward, 'V were now
But their enjoyment

ON

RE

S were suddenly damped
r. Harvey! whose kind
ared him to the
y & on
: _advice was of the greatest 3:
When he re i
commended any thing to
ote

m why it was
equently stepped into

vantage,

vest to do so: and as he fr

* their cabi
“vours, he 0 and saw the success of their endea-
Richoed . accustomed to make remarks t
juenand anc Kitty on the cause of their incr 2
ng prosperity, which increas
ht encouraged them, and still
The mind on the more that they were right
trengthened Ny oN hatha rich or poor, is
improved b Ising ‘his own reason, and
y_ conversing with sensible people
11 reasoni ] e and more delio
the ‘
The whole family of Flana-

whom they considered eo am,

and their friend,

1eir to the estate
Since he was g child but
Fchool, and from thence
ishing his education,

ed as their
Young Mr.

ur protector,
arvey, who was
had never been much at home

was sent to a distant
i olionss where he was
in when his father die
ox Do i ste young man who nis
¢ 1 11S own t
oy \ cnants, an
nown but little of the ar co So
S

Dust be « 3 1
¢ an inconsiderate landlord, if not worse

 

 
 

 

 

100

On the day when the young squire was to enter on
his estate, the chief part of his tenantry made
bonfire to welcome him home, but Richard would
not join in it, for he felt no joy at any thing that
was consequent to the death of his good master,
nor were the children allowed to go out of the
house that night. ‘Paddy O’Ryan on the contrary
was well pleased to become tenant to such an inex
perienced young man, because he hoped he might
share in his extravagance, or impose on his igne-
rance. Judy and her daughters were rejoiced af
the diversion, or at any thing new; so they flocked
to see the bonfire, and to wonder at the fine cu
ricle in which the young squire drove home. They

vied with each other in extolling his beauty, the
elegance of his dress, and the genteel appearance
of his footmen ; and the eldest girl Polly, imme
diately planned to offer

herself a servant in thi

fine new family : even Philip was a little dazzled
at the richness of the trappings, and the beaut
of the servants’ livery, but one half hour’s conver
cation with Richard was sufficient to moderate hi
admiration, and to renew his regret for that goo
master, whose actions were the ornaments of hi
life, and the remembrance of which, could nd
pass away like the gaudy shew which we hay
been describing. ¢ He may, said Richard, be
good man that is coming over us, but it will i
time enough for us to rejoice, when we know ho
he behaves; where I see a great shew, 1 a
afraid there is no great substance.” |

While Mr. Harvey was revelling amongst h
friends, and dashing his fine retinue through i
country, his mother was secretly lamenting !
death of her husband, and as far as her prop
allowed, she was performing those. acts of char
which she knew he approved of. She was fond!
inquiring about the most effectual means of hel
ing the poor, and she had heard a good deal

day, as the best of you could: earn. in three,

101

i hn ar [3 x ” . 0. .
Bthe advantages of straw-plaitting, in order to em-

a great many children. As very little was to
arned on bibs way, till they became complete
Mrs. Harv aired of INE
i . Harvey despaired of persuading
: ality of children to engage In it; hy
3 F 1 1 :
“ .i 1 Sou of convincing Richard and
v, of the t it : nor w
17, i i: vantage of it ; nor was she deceived
tbe! pes of this worthy couple, who immedi-
itely sent their daughters, Pegoy and Wi
‘learn the art: the p I he
le: ; they were not discouraged, at th
nd of three months fi SO :
e¢ months, to {ind that the two children
ad earned but two shillings. |
One day, as all the family
y> asall the family were busily employed

Cat their differe ks, Px i
: erent works, Paddy came in and sat

upon the dresser to look at them. ¢ Well Kitty,”
Js

5 6 66 .
Bsays he, ¢ you look very busy, but if you would

ake mi i /
take my advice, you would earn as much in one

47 : ot y a ’ z ‘ ak .
wo % Vor i Leil your mind, Paddy,”
nl iy My advice is for yon alt. to pb out

ba y a | sleeves, into the bog, and foot ort or

18 § a . Stl de
on in the season, or bind corn, or pick

0Cs, Or: dig or sow them; all in the sc;

0 you mind » 6 B » : “4 L Cas0i1,
suffici nt : ut, says Kitty, $e there's not
uly i FOuMoyme for women cut of doors, for

C » 4 2 a
pihor bs Aone Y car, and what should we do the
alf?” «Do nothing,” says Paddy, * when
vou work, oet all tl S oli Ys *t wiien
then 2 > all the money you can for it, and
she ilo Wi lawhilly be idle.” Kitty told him
not like idleness d :
s, and thought it b
work for nothi ? . git 1t better to
ung than ¢o . ‘
Now caine A) ie a a Richa
3 WOrK, an addy renew
. ; ew
42 argument with him. ¢ Now Richord 3 ed

e, “how much a day d nard,” says
plaittine ?  ¢ Ney y do your children earn
two cyer more,” he answered. ¢¢ than
Pee now: that they ore improved.” “T GC
fiding. i ord save us | and would you have them
trencth i all the day, wasting their little

Sth, to earn two pence. Don’t be made a

 

 
 

102

fool of by the fancies of the quality. Spinning is
bad enough, but plaitting is the mischief.” ¢ 1 think
it very well, said Richard, for such small children
to earn two pence a day, but much better, that
they are now learning a business which may be of
use to them hereafter, and which teaches them
neatness and exactness.” ¢ And what good is
neatness and exactness to peor people? It is well
“for them to put a potatoe in their mouths, and a
rag on their backs, let alone to aim at grandeur:
though I am an O’Ryan, yet I don’t pretend to
grandeur, nor any sort of exactness. In short, I
would not lose my time being over nice about
trifles.” In vain Richard explained the advantage
of women being neat and exact, as it produced
economy, as well as the propriety of their employ-
ment being chiefly in the house, except when their
sissistancerin the ‘field was absolutely necessary, as
it preserves. that modesty which is so beautiful and

beeing + besides that, the economy of the cab-
in is much better attended te, while the wornen

are on the spot. Paddy had teo long lived in filth
and extravgance, to have any idea of the nature
of either neatness or economy, so he went home
of the same mind as when he began the discourse,
and was joined by his wife and daughters in ridieul-
ing the plaitting, which was deemed worse than
spinning, and neither employments, they said,
would support brute beasts, lect alone Christians.
By this time, many of the poor neighbours had
taken example of Kitty to spin at a cheap rate,
and had found their advantage in constantly earn-
ing that little which this work brought them, bt
no one had adopted the plaitting except the litte
¥Flanagans.
let us now take a view of Paddy’s family;
Philip was often unemployed, though his father
had land enough to give all his children enough
to do, but Paddy thought it unnecessary to cleat

103

or manure his ground, and was not fond of the
srouble of tillage.  Philip’s admiration of the
Flanagan's, made him wish for his family to re-
semble them, but as he could not alter them, he
was determined to imitate them himself as much
as was in his power. He made a bower in the
corner of a dirty little garden, and when it was
made, he thought it ill became its situation, so he
improved the garden, as well as he was able, con-
sidering the discouragements he met with from his
father ; who despised every thing that was neat.
He said he hated all pride but family-pride, and
he thought the true dignity of a man of family,
was to be perfectly idle. When the bower was
made, and the garden dressed up in the spring of
the year, he brought his sisters to look at it, But
they said it was too lonesome for them to sit in

and they could not be cloistered up, like Mary and
her sisters, Philip was disheartened at the bad.
success of his bower, and did not like to look at
ity because no one in the house cared about

it; and he was ashamed to ask the I'lanagans to

see it, lest they should see the dirt and bustle of
the house; for though his mother and sisters were
idle and lazy, yet they always had a confused look,
and the house had the appearance of great business.
Pots, and bowls, and pails, and tubs, were all over
the floor, so that it was difficult to walk in without
stumbling. When we consider this confusion
and the constant scolding and Jarring, which they
0 ht, anagrams soln ted shes br
eis thy Wana dom. visited. there, but very
Uy preferred their own private dwelling.
As Philip grew up, he was more and more sensible
of the bad management of his father’s family, and
often recommended his sisters to take example by
Mary, but they only ridiculed both him and her in
return. His sister Polly having set her heart on the
Young squire’s foot-man, became idler than ever:
the plans she formed for meeting him, took up so

 

 
104

much of her mind, that she could think of nothins
else; and the great plan of marrying him, and liv
ing an easy life with such a well dressed man, ang
under such a rich master, made her think it 3
folly to perplex and tire herself doing any busiress
whatever ; so she threw it all upon her sister Nelly,
which was the cause of many a quarrel.
The leases of the tenants were now nearly cx-
pired, and every one was anxious about his ap-
proaching fate. Paddy made presents of fowl and
eggs, and even of a fat calf, to his honour, and
when his children went a mess~ se, or spent the
whole day minding the landlord’s cattle, they had
orders never to be paid, but to tell his honour
they thanked him for employing them. On an
inexperienced young man like Mr. Harvey, these
compliments had the desired effect, and Paddy
found he was daily coming into higher favour:
but Richard’s views of the supreme excellence of
industry increased that independence which was
natural to him, he had nothing to fear, he knew
that while health was granted to himself and his
family, they could struggle through every thing
by the main force of perpetual industry. He owed
no rent, which was not Paddy’s case, and he had
no idea of cringing to, or flattering a young man
that he knew little or nothing about, yet his grate
ful and benevolent heart was well disposed to love
a worthy neighbour, whether rich or poor, and if
he loved him, he would go far to serve him. One
day in harvest, when Mr. Harvey had Paddy’
family employed in the field, he sent Peggy Flan-
agan a message of six miles, and when she return-
ed, paid her nothing. Richard desired her to go
back and ask him if he pleased to pay her for go-
ing the message. ¢ Pay you, you little baggage,
what could you do, but sit over the fire, burning
your petticoats: you ought to be glad to get some-
thing to do.” Peggy replied that she was always

| Ing on his part to make the best of it.

105

kept busy at home, and never burned her etti=
coats in her life. « Well, hereis six pence in
as you are so stiff; but it is not well for you to
speak so smart to your betters; that churl your fa~
ther has brought you up badly.” Peggy went
away, affronted at being called a baggage “and told
of burning her petticoats, which she new was a
false accusation, but she was also scared at the loud
voice and haughtiness of the young squire,
Richard heard the story with secret displeasure
but only laughed and remarked, that people who-
wonder at children’s working for low hire are most
apt to undervalue their time + but he was too much
pleased with the conduct of his family. to be fret-
ted at any affront from a neighbour; so he took
no notice of trilles. As his family advanced in
honest industr ’s Richard had increased satisfac-
tion, which was interrupted by a warning from the
landlord, that he must either give up his place or
pay an advanced rent. As his house and little
garden were in such good order, he was sure the
would set higher to a stranger, therefore he or
sented to pay the advanced rent; at the same time
he knew that the old master. would never have
aised the rent on him, who was the entire a

prover of the little place: but the veneration which

he felt for that spot where he had happily reared his
family, reconciled him to it, and at the same Sn
2 take another acre, that he might have a cow or
5 hi on he heped that the united industry

amily would surmount all difficulties

: hough the unkindness of his landlord kept him
ruggling much longer than would otherwise have

be i

po ihe ge Ned encouraged him to take the

% and promised that no pains should be want.

i : How dif-

Ww i was Paddy’s case, who had let his house and

Wil to ruin; he had flattered Mr. Harvey's
> and stooped to the most cringing compli-

E2

 

 
 

 

106

ances; shewed him his wretched house and ex-
hausted land; assured him that his high and
exorbitant rent had brought on such an appear-
ance of beggary, and that he had not an haltpenny
to pay up his arrears; but if he would have the
goodness to forgive him, and to lower hisrent, he
would for ever after be as true as the sun, and as
in duty bound, would ever pray for his honour.
Mr. Harvey consented to what Paddy required,
upon which he poured a shower of blessings on his
head, said he was the prince of all the family,
though they were all good; but there never was
one of them had the gait and fine presence of you;
May you get a beautiful lady for your wife, with
her weight in gold.” Richard was a little sur-
prized at first, hearing how differently Paddy
fared from him, but he soon considered that Mr.
Harvey, having just come from conversing with
giddy boys, was not likely to hear, or to know
what was most to his own advantage, or the ad-
vantage of his country. Ned was very indignant
at the conduct of the landlord, so discouraging,
as he said, to good tenants, and setting the idle
above them. ¢ Nothing,” said Richard, « should
discourage industry. We reaped the benefit of
keeping our little ground in heart, and our house
in repair, and though we pay the more for it now,
yet we arc the better able to pay, and if we can’t
make the rent of it, we may throw it up, and take
some other little place, where we must begin our
industry anew; while we are clear of debt, and
have health and strength, we need not fear. Pad-
dy’s ground is exhausted, not with good crops
but with dirt and weeds ; if ever he gets any good
of it, he must be at great expense to put it in
heart; and if he does not choose to be at that
trouble ; it will be little better than a common:
you see his house is gone to rack, and every thing
‘about him is the same way, ex cept the gare

EF

By
i
a

i]

4

=

167

which Philip attends to: you mistake, when vou s
that the idle are raised above the Tdi which :
never can be the case, while industry Pd
every thing, and idleness not only produces 1
thing, but wastes all.” Such lessons as these ih
conciled Ned, in some degree, to his Tandlords.
injustice, and he burned with impatience to she x
Mr. Harvey and the whole country, that ia
on quench the sparks of industry and indepen- :
Although Philip had a great veneration for
Richard, yet he was so accustomed to hear the lit
tle labours of the Flanagans ridiculed, that he w fe
not quite of Richards mind on this subject;
and particularly he wondered at Mrs. Hors "
who was a charitable woman, to pay. so litele
tor spinning and plaitting.. One wet day
as Richard was sitting at home with his Sos. |
mending their brogues, he had the following Got
versation with. Philip.. ?
Richard.. Don’t you think, Philip, that it is a
pleasant sight to see a whole family earning sOme-.
thing on a-wet day like this, and not. wearing out
their clothes, nor going into bad company. Be
Philip. A very pleasant sight, indeed, but
what I ‘think bad of, is how little they earn. :
_ Richard.. My wife,and Mary, and Isther, carn
irom ten pence to twelve peneeamong themin aday
and my little - ones . earn about four pence or five
pence, which amounts to something : - besides they
have an eye ta every thing in the cabin, atl of
ten get up to do a turn, for you see they never sit
down to the wheel or the straw, except when they
have nothing else to do. or
Philip, Very good: but T don’t see why women
and children should not be paid more for their
i ou know that spinning and plaitting are
Richard. Do. you consider, Philip, ‘when =
a pound of flax costs sixteen pence, and a hank of.

 

 
 

 

 

 

108

varn is worth only thirteen pence, how could a
woman expect more than four pence for spinning
a hank of two dozen yarn; and ‘it is plain, that
wherever the manufacturer of linen can buy the
cheapest yarn, there he will deal, and so with plait
and woollen yarn, and many other things I could
mention.

Philip. That is all very true: but when the
spinning is paid so low for, it would be better to
do something else.

" Richard. “What else could you do here?

Philip. Let them work in the fields like men,
or go to service.

- Richard. There is not enough of work to do
for both men and women .in the fields, except at
harvest time, and even men are often out of em-
loyment. You see that by the whole family work-
ing at a cheap rate, they carn pretty well at all
times of the year, and in all weathers, both by
candle-light and day light ; and itis only by work-
ing cheap, they are supplied with flax to spin, for
, their employers can a ord to sell this yarn cheap ;
but when some well-inelined people, who thought
our women were not paid enough for spinning,
gave them more; they could not sell the yarn
without loss; and were soon obliged either to lower
their prices, or to give up employing the peor: as
the women got the way of being highly paid, they
would not work lower for that season, of conse-
quence there has been no spinning since, and the
weavers have lost their business too.

Plilip. 1 sce this is all very true: yet I think
it hard that the labour of industrious women should
be so much undervalued.

Richard. 1 don’t think it undervalued. You
know what makes any thing dear or cheap, Is its
being scarce or plentiful, and there are so many un-

“employed women and children, the work they all
do must be cheap. My poor dear master used to

109

~ tell me, that it was in those countries where the
~ women and children work cheap, that the poor
are best off, because the work will follow these
people; and where there is much industry, there
4 will be manufacturers, which bring all kinds of
business. Besides you know if every one was paid
high from the beginning to the finishing of a yard
of linen, it would be too dear for poor people to
© buy.
In England, they say, there are thousands of
| children working for two or three pence a day.
3 and yet the poor in England are better off than
§ most of us, though our taxes are trifline com-
~ pared to theirs. vs
3 Philip was satisfied with Richard’s argument
- and was more desirous than ever that his sisters
should employ themselves like Mary. Indeed
t Mary was so agreeable, and Philip had spent o
. many pleasant hours in her company, that the
i thoughts of her was seldom out of his mind ; but
5 2 he had no place to bring her to, and had not
een in a way to save s ing : is mi
to himself, though YE J non
to hi ; 1g many plans of ad-
3 vancing himself to some situation, which might
- be worthy of her. He asked Ned's advice how
he might get on a little in the world, so as to build
~ a cabin. Ned knew no way but to work for hire
like himself, but Paddy O’Ryan never would hear
of Philip working for hire.” % Was it for this.”
bsaid he, ¢ that I schooled him, and reared Ii a
ender as a gentleman ? No, Paddy O’Ryan never
es day’s work for any man, nor Philip O’Ryan
ior di nT wl
: attention to the garden, and
: inde many attempts to improve the land; but his
dither always proved a clog on his endeavours
At length he went to service to Mr. Harvey which
is father very unwillingly consented to; But no
IsCouragement could check his desire of laying

 

 
110

up some provision for building a cabin, in hopes
that Mary would become his wife. Soon after
this a house-maid was wanting in the squire’s fa-
mily : Mus. Harvey wished much for Mary; she
was accordingly spoken to, but neither her father
nor mother would consent to her going where
there there were so many men servants, both of
the family and of the quality who visited there;
nor did they wish Mary to go any where to service,
while she had so much to do at home. Philip was
greatly disappointed at this conclusion, and prc.
posed his sister Polly, who was hired.

Mr. Harvey had many arguments with his mo-
ther respecting Richard: he thought him too stiff
for a poor man. She argued that he was not stiff
when he was well treated, but that his independent
mind ‘was entitled to respect. Respect,” said Mr,
Harvey, ¢ what respect has a poor man any
right to?” ¢ When he performs,” says Mrs. Har-
vey, “all the duties of a father, a husband, a ser-
vant, or a friend, and performs them well, he is
as respectable as. any gentleman, and as inde-
pendent.” Harvey still argued, that people who
had got no education, and had kept no good com-

pany, (as he called it,) should be treated as infe-

riors, and considered as of a lower order; and
when his mother endeavoured to persuade him,
that Richard’s good understanding was improved
by reading, and inquiring into the nature of
things, heburst out into an immoderate fit of laugh-
ing; ashethoughtita most riduculous notion, that
a labouring man, who had never learned any lan-
guage but his own, and was never at college, could
have a good understanding, orknow how to make
inquiries into the nature of things: for his part, he
would not think it worth while to answer his in-
quiries. * Your father did, Henry,” replied Mrs.
Harvey, “and often held long conversations
-with Richard, and used to say that he thougi

111

himself improved by hearing Richard’s remarks
«] do not wonder,” said Henry, « that Rich-
ard is conceited and stiff; I suppose the poor man
is wrong in his head, striving to speak and to
reason on subjects that he does not understand.”
« Your father used to talk to him,” answer-
cd she, ¢ on those subjects which every man,
whether rich or poor ought to understand—
that is, on the most likely way of benefiting the
country. He could not do much for the general
benefit, I own, nor you, nor any single indivi-
dual, but his example might have more effect than
you imagine, and has already done some good.
The Irish poor only want to be set a going, and
to be reasoned with, and they will quickly under-
stand and pursue their own interest: no people
have more quick understanding than the people of
this country: but even suppose Richard’s exam-

ple took no effect upon his neighbours, yetit is a
delightful sight, youw’ll allow, to see one happy

family. To estimate the advantages of happy in-
dustry, you have only to step into Richard’s cab-.
in, where every thing is neat and regular, the
family all employed and happy; and contrast this
picture with the wretched appearance of his next
neighbours, the O’Ryans, who are ruined with
idleness, laziness, and pride.” Ill tell you a
shorter way to make a family happy,” replied
Henry, “you that have plenty of money, give
them some, and they will soon provide the means
of happiness.” ¢ By no means,” said the conside-
rate lady; ¢ I would not destroy that independent
spirit, which the man who provides for his family
feels, and without which, the poor as well as the
rich, are all slaves. There are many cases when
it is our duty to give alms to the poor, but encoy-
raging industry is much better than giving to those
who are able to work. A man is never tired help-
ing himself, but we should soon tire giving to the
idle, and we should ere long, have nothing to give:

 

 
112

besides, a poor man will take more care of the
food and clothes, or other provision, which his
own labour has supplied him with, than of that he
gets for nothing. TI wish, my dear Henry, that
you would reason on the best means of improving
your tenantry; assure yourself their true interests
are inseparable from yours. Your own observation,
assisted by some books I can lend you, would give
you all the information you want.” <I would
much rather,” said Henry, ¢ be following a good
pack of hounds, than be prying into the dirty
cabins of the poor, and a newspaper will give me
more information as to the situation of my country,
than all those fran books of yours.” Mrs. Har-
vey was grieved at the inconsiderate and wild no-
tions of her son, so contrary to his own advan-
tage, and that of the poor: but she hoped he
would not be long blind to the superiority of Rich-

ard over Paddy, and that this contrast would help

him to think and act better. In the mean time,
she was unwearied in carrying on her little plans
of inducing children to work. On the first day of
the new year, she presented Peggy, who was the
best plaiter, with a new gown, and Winny with a
petticoat; and at the same time, she put up an
advertisement, that on the first of May, she would
again give premiums to the best plaitters. After
this, there were many children who learned to
plait, and Mrs. Harvey taught Mary to make up
the bonnets, which was much more profitable than
spinning; but as she had not constant employ-
ment at this work, she often returned to the wheel.
Richard and Ned were more attentive than ever
to their garden and little field, as it was so dear:
little Billy worked at it every day; the potatoes
and oats turned out very well: they got a good
price for the corn, and secured the petatoes well
in the pit. When all now prospered equally with-
in and without, and the greatest happiness pre-
vailed in the family, Kitty took a feve#: for many

1138

days they hoped that she was only oppressed with
a cold, which would soon go off with care. Mary
made warm drink for her, and kept the house
quiet, but no care prevented her from growing
worse. When Mrs, Harvey heard of her illness,
she came to see her, and said she feared it was a
fever, and advised them to send for a doctor.
Mary turned pale with the sudden fear, which
only then came into her mind. All the family
were frightened when Mary came out of the room,
and burst into a flood of tears; but fearing her
mother might hear her, she went outside the door,
and, for a short time, delivered herself up to her
grief. Her father aud her brother were at work :
Philip was just going by, and was shocked to see
that face, once so cheerful and tranquil, now con-
vulsed vith the agony of fear and distress. As
soon as she was able to answer his tender inqui-
ries, she told him of her mother veing so ill that
a doctor was wanting ; and she had no one to send,
but begaed of him to hire some little boy for her.
Philip no sooner knew her wish, than he flew to
the doctor’s himself. How M ary’s heart fell with-
in her when the doctor entered! what would he
say? Oh, if he should confirm her fears, how
would she bring her dismal face before her mother,
who ought to be cheered: the doctor sald, that
indeed it was a fever, but with great care she
might recover. ¢ She shall recover,” said Mary
to herself, ¢ if care will cure her;” and from that
time she seldom left her for a moment. No en-
treaties could prevail on Mary to try to sleep, lest
any sort of care should be wanting to her mother.
Kitty’s sufferings were long and severe, and her
whole family were in the most painful suspense:
the neighbours who had never been very intimate
with her, sent to inquire almost every hour how
she did, and many of them offered to sit up with
Ler, or do any thing in their power to assist her,

| Mary accepted of the assistance of one old expe-

-8.

 
114

rienced woman ; but she could not sleep when she
lay down, nor did she find it possible to stay ous
of her mother’s sight. When Kitty was a little
better, she advised her children to be resigned to
her death, and to .comfort their father, saying
that they had all reason to be thankful that they
were fo long spared to each other, and that she
was rejoiced to think, how good and industrious
they were. Philip often came to ask for her, for
he was considered like one of the family, and in-
deed Paddy and Judy shewed great good nature,
and begged of Mary tosend to them for anything she
thought they had. But when there wasno longer any
Lope, it would have moved themost thoughtless and
cruel person, to see this onee happy family stand-
ing round Kitty’s bed in silent anguish, while
Mary sat behind, and supported ler, as she wos
struggling with the phlegm for breath. When

the old woman said she had got the rattles, a ge-

neral horror was painted on cvery countenance:
“ then,” said they, “she must die.” The chil
dren crowded round the old woman to know wha
they could get for her, or where to fly for help:
but the hand of death was upon her, and not cven
Mary could relieve her, except by holding her up
in her arms, while she laid her poor head on Mau-
rv’s shoulder. Eder dim eves, in vain rolled reune
to see her family, and in vain she moved her tongue
about her parched mouth, striving to speak cet:
solation to them, or to bid them a last farewell
She often raised her feeble hands, and clasped
them together, expressive both of her own anguisiy
and of her resignation, or as signs of a last fares
well, and when they fell, never to rise again, and
her latest breath was gone, a solemn silence con-
tinued for a while—but this wes soon interiupted
by the sighs and stifled sobs of Richard, Ned, and
Mary, and by the loud lamentations of the young:
er children, who bewailed their lost mother with

115

afl the truth and tenderness, and violence natural
to young and affectionate minds. Philip was the
first that entered the house after her death:
he secretly joined in the grief of the family, but
he did not dare to speak to Mary, who seemed
beyond the reach of any comfort. Richard
walked out to the fields, to pray for resignation to
such a severe stroke, for he said his very life was
twisted in her’s, and that it tore his heart in
pieces to be separated from her. Ned and Philip
went out in the garden, and sat down in the:
bower. When Ned looked on his little crops,
which his ‘mether took such delight in, he burst
into tears, and said, ¢“ What signifies all cur en-
deavours to be rich and comfortable, when we
must leave the world after all, and must part with
out best friends. I shall never take more pleasure
inmy garden.” Philip was sensible that time gene-
rally alleviates grief, but heknew that it was invainto-
teil Ned, that his relish for employment would
return. In his present state of mind, no conso-
lation could avail, except those which religion:
offers. With the utmost tenderness and modesty,
Philip directed his friend to that never failing
resource.

‘The first time Mary went to prayers, after her
mother’s death, Philip walked home with her,
and endeavoured to comfort her; she listened to
him with attention, and after she had given up to
veep without any reserve, she spoke freely of her
sorrow, and of the uncommon goodness of her
nother; ¢ and what will become of us,” sail she,
“ without her ? how ean we ever expect to be the
same happy family? How lonesome the cabin
looks without her! and how do 1 pity my poor
futher, now that he is growing old!” “Mary's
openness in speaking of her sorrow, and of her
{amily affairs, emboldened Philip to declare his
love to her, and to tell her, that it was for her he

 
116

was striving to save a little money at his service,
Maryalways liked Philip, though she never thought
of him as a husband, and she could only answer
him with her tears. Irom this time, they often
met to speak of their future plans; but when
Paddy came to hear of it, he swore that an O’ Ryan
never should be married to a Flanagan, and that
if Philip married against his consent, he would
never speak to him, but would leave his curse with
all belonging to him. When Richard heard this,
he advised Mary not to keep company with Philip,
but to shew that she had both spirit and modesty :
accordingly, the next time Philip came to see her,
she told him, that, although she would not make
any promises against him, as she heped his father
might change his mind, yet that she couid not let
herself down, by marrying into a family, agains

their consent. In vain Philip endeavoured to
persuade her, that his father’s objections were
founded in foolish pride: and that as no one could
help liking her, he would soon, he was very sure,
be satisfied, after they were married. Mary would
not consent, though by this time she loved Philip
as well as he loved her, and only for her constant
employment, she would have been very unhappy;
but she had not much time to brood over her dis-
appointment. She had a great deal of care on
her, and much to do with her own hands.—
Such a number of children had been induced by
premiums to learn to plait, that Mrs. Harvey gave
her a great many bonnets to niake, and she had
no longer any time for spinning. As they kept a
cow, and as the whole family were busily employed,
they hired a little girl, who sat at poor Kitty's
wheel, when there was nothing else for her to do.
Esther also spun, and Peggy and Winny were
become such good plaitters, that their work was
fit to send to Dublin, and they were each able to
earn from eight pence to ten pence in the day.

Oo - - -
Ned sowed a bit of flax for his sisters, but the

117

weather proved unfavourable, the flax was fired,
and so bad, that they found it was dearer than
what they bought; and being fired, they did not
understand how to manage it in the best manner,
Paddy said, that the flax could not have luck, be-
cause why, the girls did not sing when they were
pulling it; < and signs on it,” said he, * for it
was nothing but boragh.” Ned was much discou-
raged, and his sisters were very sorry at his disap-
pointment ; but Richard said there was no reason
for discouragement, as experience would teach him
how to manage better next time ; and it was better
toconsider how to be moresuccessfal, than to lament
past misfortunes, Paddy and Judy, in their wis-
dom, considered the case, and made the following
reflections : ¢ [t’s the greatest folly on this earth,”
says Paddy, ¢ to attempt what we don’t under-
stand —keep to the potatoes; we understand the
potatoes—but these sort of puny-things are mighty
bothering entirely, and never have luck, barring
whenit comes natural topeople to understand them.”
“ It is not alone when the flax is growing,” added
Judy, “but from one end to the other: itis
enough to bother the very life of one to go through
with it. I was kilt with a couple of perch of it
one year, and I pitched it from that out.” Now
Richard’s maxim was, that what was once done
could be done again, and what poor people in one
country could do, might be done by poor people
In any country, by the help of information and ex-~
perience, (provided ‘the climates were the same)
nor could one, two, or three disapppointments
discourage him from persevering in any thing
which he believed would be advantageous : though
he did not like to run too much risk at the first
experiment : as to Paddy and Judy’s objection on
account of the bother and trouble, that was a re-
commendation to Richard; for he used to sav,
that it was only for the rich to go into a business

 

 
118%

that required no trouble or labour, since there
must be either money or labour employed in any
kind of business; and the man who had plenty of
‘hands and but little money, like him, would natu-
rally choose that sort of employment that was most
in his power. Ned made another attempt at
raising flax, and succeeded better, which induced
him to hope, that a few more seasons might bring
it to perfection.

Things were going on prosperously with the
Flanagans, when Ned married an industrious girl
in the neighbourhood, consequently, his earnings
were lost to the family, and his father gave him a

cow. Soon after this, Richard was affected with

the rheumatism, which gradually settled in his
bones, so as to disable him from working; but
there was no want in the family, as little Billy
took care of the ground, and worked for hire, and
the little girls earned quite sufficient to maintain

and clothe themselves. Richard had now reason
to rejoice in the excellence of his early plans of
industry, and of not despising the labours of little

children, which are like small seeds, that being
thrown into well prepared ground, and being cul-
tivated, dressed, and sheltered, come, in time,
to be large and valuable trees, richly rewarding
ibe skill and care of the cultivator.

Although Paddy’s vent was lowered to his wish,
vet he was still unable to pay it, and would have
lost his house and land, but for the goodness of
Philip, who was forced to spend the little money
he was saving for house keeping, on his idle fa-
mily, but all his endeavours were too little to keep
the house over their heads. The roof was bad in
many places, and let in the rain on the old couple;
who, having a cheap farm, and thinking them-
selves above the necessity of working, had given

way to the ridiculous pride we have described, and
spent all their time in keeping themselves warm

distress to the Flanagans.

| wanted, if it was in the cabin.
be the bearer, lest it might offend Paddy to see her,

he recovered every
| Mary went to see him : he told Philip that it would
be happy for him, if ever he got such a wife;

119

and tender. In their old age, their thick coats
. and cloaks were worn thread-bare, and the turf was

only bought creel by creel, so that they often sat
shivering by the dying embers. Polly had mar-
ried the footman, who was such a drunken fellow,
that he was more a burden than any help to the

] family. The other girls had gone to service, in
hopes of putting fine clothes on themselves, which

they could get no other way, except by those in-
dustrious arts that they were not brought up to.
Things were in this desolate state with them, when
Paddy took ill of an ague; his wife was at best

a helpless creature, but she was now grown weak
and old, and really had no substance to manage ;

so that the spirit of the O’Ryans was so much
broken down, that they were forced to tell their
Richard was very cha-
ritable : in his youth, one of his strongest motives
to be industrious, was, that he might one day be
able to help a friend. When he saw the desolate
state of his old neighbours, all his good nature

and compassion was aroused, and he offered them

every assistance in his power. He went home,

and desired his daughters to go sce them three

times a day, and bring with them whatever the
Mary was loth to

so Lsther, and Peggy, and Winny, went in turn,
but when the shivering fit came on, these young

| girls did not know what to do, and begged that
| Mary would go. She went, and her services

were very acceptable ; she prepared the medicines
Mrs. Harvey had ordered, and watched the right
time for him to take the hippo, at the beginning
of the cold fit; and brought him the bark on his
well days, and persuaded him to take it; so that
day from the time that

 

 
I

120

¢ but to be sure,” says he, ¢ she is grown so rich,
and we are’so poor, that she would not have you.”
Philip was of a different opinion, and resolved to
try her again, and tell her he had nothing to offer
her, but a true heart and his industry, which he
hoped would reclaim the ground, if his father
would give it up to him. Mary did not disappoint
him. And her father agreed that if Paddy would
give up the ground to Philip, she might accept of
him, and he would give her a cow. I'he bargain
wasnot long concluding. Poor Paddyand Judy were

lad to be relieved of a burden which they feared
would sink them into the earth ; accordingly, Phi.
lip and Mary were married amidst the general
congratulations of the neighbourhood: indeed it
afforded so much satisfaction, that it is spoken of
to this day. They went to live with Judy and
Paddy, took great care of them, put the house in
order, and reclaimed the ground, which being very
cheap, afforded good profit. Mrs. Harvey was
so well pleased with Philip’s services, and had such
long proof of Mary’s industry and cleverness,
that she gave up the plaitting business to her, just
as it was beginning to flourish, and when there was
no longer any occasion for premiums to induce the
children to work ; for they now began to earn so
much, that their parents were delighted to have
them taught: nor were the old women under the
necessity of being idle, and shutting up their cab-
ins to go beg; for Ned had | sarned to understand
the growing and preparing flax so well, that Le
sowed a field of it almost every year; and many
of the neighbours took example by him, and went
to him for advice, which he cheerfully gave. The
flax came so cheap, and the women spun at such
a moderate price, that weavers were induced to
settle in the neighbourhood, and there was a great
demand for their yarn: before many years were
expired, the parish of was remarked for

121

the neatest cabins, the best cultivated ground

the best dressed women, and the healthiest people
in the country, or we might say in the province ;
which was entirely owing to the introduction of

oe simple mannufacture of yarn and straw-
plait.

 

 
TEMPER.

mother both died before he was two years old;
but the loss of his parents was well supplied by an
aunt, who was a very sensible woman. She had
many good qualities, but there was none for which
she was so remarkable, as the sweetness of her
temper. Though she was in a comfortable line of
Jife, yet circumstances often occurred, which would
have ruffled the temper of many women. When
Mabel Roy, for that was her name, found her
business crowding upon her, she recollected, that
scolding her servant, upbraiding her husband, or
Jamenting her situation, would only increase her
confusion; therefore, she wisely restrained her
impatience, preserved her food humour, and
calmly dispatched one piece of work after another.
When this was accomplished, she could enjoy the
timeof leisure which is often employed by passionate
people in repenting of their impatience ; in remedy-
ing the evils they have cccasioned ; or in continued

GroreE Allen was an only child, his father and

. her nephew.
| children, and was equally well repaid by their
dutiful and affectionate conduct. It was not long
| till Georges young mind swelled with grateful in-
. tentions towards his aunt.
ed his generous spirit, nor had improper indul-
gence rendered him selfish.
| years old, he vied with his cousins in endeavourin
to serve their mother.

123

lamentations for their unhappy situation. Mabel’
husband had not the best temper in the world,
but by never provoking him, and by making his
home agreeable, he was preserved from intempe-
rance, and before he died, it might be said, he

| was a good tempered man. That event took place
| soon after George became an inmate of the family.

Mabel had two children about the same age of
She took equal care of the three

Severity had not crush-

Before he was eight
; ing
He ran of messages with-
out aciay, because the pleasure of obliging his aun

t delay, bec the pleasure of obliging h ts

| and the certainty of meeting hor approving smile
' on his return, quickencd his pace, and made him
| careless of seeking amusement by the way. It
| must not be thought that George was faultless, for
| he sometimes transgressed ; but he was so sure that
= his aunt would not punish him more than he de-
| served, that he never denied his faults, and his re-

pentance for having displeased so good an aunt,
was truly sincere. The good precepts which he
heard, and the excellent examples which he saw,
generally prevented him from repeating the same
fault. Under such a wise and good care-taker, it
must be expected that the three children loved one
another, and that their disagreements were of short
duration. Tor this end they were instructed to
vield to one another, rather than quarrel about
trifles, and to believe that we cannot be happy till
we are reconciled to our companions. Mabel well
knew, that without mutual forbearance, it was
impossible for the best children, or the most affec-
tionate men or women to ‘agree with each other

 

 
124

for any considerable time. In this harmonious
manner they lived, till the three children took the
nieasles ; George recovered, but his two little
cousins died. It Mabel’s feelings had not been
brought into subjection, previous ‘to this calamity,
her grief would have disabled her from fulfilling
the remaining duties which she had to perform,
and she might have disdained the comforts which
were still afforded her. Grief did indeed over-
come her for some days, but she prayed for resig-
nation, and her prayer was granted. The care
and affection which had been divided between the
three children, was now wholly devoted to George.
She thanked Providence who still left her this
source of enjoyment, which sufficiently attached her
to the world to make her relish her existence.
Most sincerely did George sympathize in her grief,
which he keenly felt himself, and he learned from
her, at that eariy age, the useful lesson of resigna-
tion. This affliction was soon followed by another
of a different kind. Mabel’s little farm had been
taken at two different periods; that part on which
the house was built, was much the dearest. Arthur
Murphy, the landlord, had promised Hugh Roy,
to renew the lease of the cheapest part, but no
written promise could be found after Hugh
death, Mabel well remembered hearing her hus-
band and the landlord talking on the subject, and
that the latter positively promised a renewal
The lease expired soon after the death of the chil
dren. Grief prevented Mabel from recollecting
it at the proper time, and when she applied to her
landlord, he pretended to be ignorant of her rea-
sons for entertaining such expectations. He only
laughed at her for reminding him of his promises
since she had no writing to show.
Her friends assured her, that no means could
be used to compel her landlord to fulfil his pre-
mises, therefore she quietly resigned her preter

125

sions. When George became acquainted with
the circumstances of the case, he expressed such
violent displeasure, and so much hatred of the
landlord, that it required all the address of his
aunt to represent to his ardent mind, the distine-
tion between a proper sense of injustice, and a
hatred of the person who injures us.— Her lessons
on this subject might have Prove ineffectual, but
that her nephew saw no traces of revenge on her
countenance, he heard no abusive expressions,
nor could he observe any thing in her conduct but
a forgiveness of injuries, and good-will to all her
tellow creatures.

As George grew up to man’s estate, he became
still more sensible of his aunt’s perfections. Her
conduct corresponded with the ideas of rectitude,
which his reason had formed. No inconsistencies

unfolded themselves to his growing observation.
Her actions corresponded with her words, there-

fore her instructions sunk into his heart and in-
fluenced his conduct,

"There came to the neichbourhood of these gocd
people, a mason and his family, who had been
unsuccessful in Dublin. The eldest daughter was
a beautiful young woman of eighteen. She was
dressed with more taste than any of the country
girls, and appeared to be very sensible, good-
natured, and well behaved. “So many charms
could not long remain unobserved. “She had
several admirers, who were rejected by her father,
because they had little land, or none at all, and
he knew by experience, that a good tradesman
might be reduced to poverty, when all the family .
was not economical ; therefore he wished to marry
his beautiful daughter to a sober farmer. Every
one knew that George was a great favourite of his
aunt’s, and likely to be her sole heir, therefore
her property was considered the same as Georges’.
James Burn, for that was the name of the mason,

 

 
126

soon formed the design of having George for a son-
in-law. He gave him every encouragement to
come to his house, which was soon unnecessary,
as his beautiful daughter was a sufficient attraction,
George had never seen so much elegance and
animation combined in one fair face, and he was
the more charmed, on several times finding her
fine countenance shaded with sorrow when he first
entered the house, but he observed that his presence
soon dispelled the gloom. How delightful to him
to conceive that his company was necessary to the
happiness of such a lovely creature ! He thought if
it should be his happy fate to be married to her, that
they would be an exception to the common remark
of lovers becoming cooler after marriage, for he was
persuaded that they would make each other’s joy
at meeting, and their hopes when absent.

In George's visits at Burn’s, he had frequently
heard the remarks, ¢ That no people are so good-

natured as hasty people.” ¢ That such a one was
very passionate, but that it was over in a minute,

and then he was pleasanter than ever.” Those
who dealt out these proverbs did not fail to insi-
nuate, * that even tempered people were seldom
good-natured, and that it was easy for those who
had no feeling, to keep their minds to themselves;
for their part they would rather see a person in a
passion, than that they should conceal their anger.”
Mrs. Burn, who was the chief speaker on these
subjects, made no distinction between restraining
anger, and encouraging hidden revenge. Her
observations caught George’s attention, and made
him believe that a warm temper was an amiable
guality. He knew full well that his aunt, who
was never in a passion, had practised a con-
tinual course of good-nature towards him, but
he fancied that, though she might not have been
more useful, yet she would have been more charm-
ing, if she had possessed a warmer temper. The

127

example of the beautiful and animated Jenny,
confirmed him in all his new opinions,

George’s fondness for visiting the Burns’ did not
escape his aunt’s observations, nor was she blind
to the alteration in his sentiments respecting good
temper. With sorrow she sometimes heard him
plead for bad actions, which, he said, were only
the fruits of a hasty temper, or a moment’s want
of consideration. Hearing such sentiments from
her nephew, made Mabel apprehensive that the
young girl, whose beauty she heard so often men-
tioned, was of a passionate disposition, and she
feared that George’s affections might be entangled
before he was fully acquainted with the object of
Lis choice. From his childhood she had taught
him to value good temper as a prime means of our
happiness, she now introduced the subject more
frequently than ever. She explained to him that
good temper doubles all our enjoyments, and
supports us under the pressure of both great and
small afflictions. George was always of his aunt’s
opinion while he was listening to her; and having
once entered Burns’ house while Jenny was speak-
ing in an angry tone to her mother, he resolved
carefully to observe whether her temper was bad
or not, but her mother’s voice being still louder,
and Jenny bursting into tears, convinced him that
she was” the injured person; this consideration
heightened his desire to protect her, and to rescue
her from such tyranny. As their intimacy increas-
ed, she complained to him of all she suffered from
her family. Her beauty so blinded his judgment
that he could not discern whether there were any
faults on her side, and he persuaded himself that
his affection for her would regulate her temper,
should it prove unruly, besides, he had repeatedly
heard that the falling out of lovers is the renewal
of love.

 

 
128

In an unguarded moment, he declared his
affection to Jenny; mutual vows were interchanged,
and, as he had reason to believe her parents wished
for the match, he saw no impediment to his happi-
ness. He soon made his aunt acquainted with
his sentiments and situation, at the same time
intreating her to continue to live with him; he
still felt that her guidance was necessary to his
safety and happiness. Mabel was equally un-
willing to be separated from him, and knowin
there was no further use in recommending caution
in the choice of a wife, or in condemning the
step which he had taken, she made up her mind
to make the best of what could not be undone.—
George exulting in his sanguine hopes, flattered
himself that every species of happiness had fallen
to his lot—the calm discretion of his aunt, joined
to the glowing animation of his wife, would he
thought, render his future life completely happy.
Jenny loved George, and she was the more willing
to marry him, as she was very unhappy at home.
To her who was unacquainted with real trouble,
and who had all her life been indulged, every
difficulty assumed the aspect of an impossibility,
every labour, of slavery, and every little cross
accident, of intolerable suffering. George knew
all this, but satisfied himself with the reflection,
that it was natural for women to disagree, as they
were generally employed about the same business,
but as he was to be in the field while his wife was
in the house, their occupations would never clash,
and their joy at meeting would repay them for
their toils during absence, and even though he
should witness her ill-temper, he must forgive, if
not admire the defects of a woman he loved so
well; and supposing her humours should displease
him, yet the torment of a few moments would be
repaid by hours of pleasure, of love, and the
delight of a reconciliation. Such considerations

129

ade George impatient for the happy union te
take place. His aunt assisted in forwarding his
wishes, and the hope that the faults of so youn
a creature might be easily corrected, dispelled the
fears which sometimes intruded. She remembered
the power she had once exercised over the passions
of children, she was well assured of George’s affoc-
tion for her, and she hoped that she might use
freedom in advising or reproving his wife. She
had observed some amiable qualities in this young
woman, and she could not help being partial to the
choice of her beloved nephew. After the marria ey
Mabel resigned her interest in her little farm to.
George, reserving only a very small annuity for
herself. Jenny was affected at this disinterested
action, she joined herhusband in thinking no atten-
tion could be too much to pay so worthy and. so
generous a person, who was- already becoming fee-
ble. Mabel received their attention with courtesy
and gratitude, but she endeavoured to require as
little as possible, because she knew that people often
become weary of shewing kindness by over ex-
ertion at first. For some time after their marriage,
they had no difficulties to encounter.—They had
plenty of provisions, no sickness, nor no burden
or trouble of children,. every thing went on well
till Jenny had a fit of the tooth-ache, which she
bore with so much impatience, that her-husband,
who at first-was almost as distracted to-see her in
pain, as she was to feel it; found it impossible to
continue such a torrent-of sympathy, and began
to think that he and his aunt suffered nearly as
much from hearing her complaints, as she did
from the pain.. = As George had never heard that
the immoderate complaints of a sufferer destroys
the sympathy of the by-standers, he was surprised
to find that he had more compassion for the
sufferings of his aunt, which were borne with
patience, than for those of his young and beaugie
F2

 

 
Ee — ,,,,

130

ful wife, who demanded so much more sympathy.
He was afraid he had grown ill-natured, and was
ready to upbraid himself with inconstancy.

The first time Jenny went out after she recovered
from the tooth-ache, she saw a piece of calico,
which she admired so much, that she determined
to buy a gown of it with the money which she had
received for a flock of turkeys. Her aunt, who
knew she did not want a gown, recommended her
to buy a little pig, which would please her hus-
band. This was the first time that Jenny had
been advised to act contrary to her own opinion,
since she was married. The indulgence she had
met with in her illness, and the langour which
succeeded it, rendered her more irritable than
usual, her unsubdued passion immediately took
fire, and she replied, ¢ I'll buy no pig, I'll do
what I like with my own money. My husband is
pleased well enough with me, without my stinting
myself to gain his favour.” ¢ Well, well,” replied

. Mabel, ¢ you know I enly gave you my advice.

That ought not to displease you.” ¢Idon’t want
advice, I can advise myself, and I can tell you,
I’m not so easily displeased as yomthink,” replied
Jenny, clapping the door after her, and hastening
away to buy the gown. All the way to the shop
she was ¢ nursing her wrath to keep it warm.”—
Her impassioned imagination represented her aunt
as a stingy old tyrant, and that if she did not
show a proper spirit, there would be no living in
the house with her, nor no end to her advice, for
which reason, her aunt should see that she would
buy a gown when she liked, and wear it too, and
every time she wore it, she contemplated herself
as showing her spirit, and gratifying revenge. She
bought the gown, and before she was near home,
her passion began to cool, it seemed as if the
possession of the gown damped her spirit, and
he more she looked at it, the less satisfied she

131

was with it. She felt that it was not worth the
uneasiness it caused, and the thoughts of wearing
it were so far from giving her pleasure, that she
dreaded appearing in it. In the disputes which
she formerly had with her own family, they spoke
with as much violence, and as little reascn to her,
as she did to them, which had the effect o. pro-
longing her anger, and preventing Ler from
blaming herself. On the contrary, her aunt had
not uttered an angry word, and what she pro-
posed was quite reasonable. With palpitating
heart Jenny opened the door of her house, ex-
pecting an upbraiding look, if not blame from
her aunt, but she saw no traces of anger in her
countenance. She was quietly knitting her ne-
phew’s stockings. When she saw Jenny entering,
she inquired whether she had bought the gown.—
“1 have,” replied the abashed Jenny. Mabel
looked at it, remarked that it appeared to be
strong, and added, ¢ When shall we make it up?”
Jenny could not reply. <I canrun the breadths
together, though I can’t see to do fine work,”

-continued the placid Mabel. Jenny burst into

tears, ¢ Oh,” said she, “I can’t bear this— I am
entirely to blame, and I ought to be advised by
you.” ¢ Dear child,” said Mabel, ¢ don’t fret
yourself, sure I could not be angry with you.”
“ But I am angry with myself,” replied Jenny,
“ for speaking to you as I did, and you gave me
no provocation, and sure I ought to think day
and night of all you did for me when I was ili.
Oh will you forgive this ungrateful turn ?” Mabel
replied,. that we must bear with one another; and
it need scarcely be added, that they were soon.
reconciled. Things went on very well again, and
Jenny doubled her attention to her aunt after this.
adventure.

George had been frequently inconvenienced

‘by not having his meals ready in proper time.

 

 
E.R dp

152

He bore it as long as he could without finding
fault, he then spoke of it very quietly, but there
was no reform. One morning he was detained
longer than usual waiting for his breakfast, when
it was of great consequence that he should not
delay. He asked for his breakfast in a more
hurrying manner than ever Jenny had heard him
speak, and added that it was a great loss to him
to be so often delayed, and he -wished that she
would get up earlier in the morning, ¢ It will be
soon ready for you, George,” said his aunt, and
we will try to have it wo in future.” “J can’t
get it any faster than I am, if I was to kill myself,”
said Jenny, ¢ and it is very hard to be up at cock
crow, after slaving all day.” <I did not know
you were slaving all day,” replied George. ¢ No,”
said Jenny, ¢ you think I do no good; you don’t
see what I do, but I know that I am tired enough
going to bed at night, and that I can’t have your
breakfast any sooner.” « My aunt,” rejoined
‘George, * had every thing to do that you do, and
she never kept me waiting for my meals.” ¢ Oh,”
retorted Jenny, ¢ your aunt did this, and your
aunt did that, and your aunt is a wonder.” ¢ She
is indeed,” replied George with feeling. ¢ Aye,”
said she, ¢ you think more of any old woman in
the country, than you do of me. I wish an
She would have poured out a torrent of foolish or
sinful wishes, if George had not wisely withdrawn,
for he felt himself growing angry, and he had
heard his aunt say, that we should if possible,
retire from the cause of our displeasure, before
we are so far provoked, as to be unable to com-
mand ourselves, George withdrew, and left his
wife under the dominion of her passions. One
moment rating against her husband, then at her
aunt, then at the cruel fate, which introduced her
into such hardship, at length she melted into
dears, and upbraided herself more than any one

183

else. In the mean time George was at his work
without any breakfast, and at that unhappy hour
he would gladly have exchanged his situation, for
that which he formerly enjoyed, under the tranquil
government of his aunt. So far from loving the
defects of a woman, in proportion as he loved
herself, he found they were more disagreeable to
him, and occasioned him much more torment
than if he had been indifferent to her,

Being unaccustomed to lie under thedispleasure of
any one, George thought his existence intolerable,
till he was reconciled to his wife. He returned to
his house, where he found her in tears, the sight
affected him; he remembered that he was her
protector. He entreated her not to weep ; she
wept the more, and as usual blamed herself, As
this was their first dispute, George flattered
himself that all future quarrels would end ag
well. They were reconciled in the most affection-
ate manner, and George was charmed at the
tender renewal of love. The succeeding day was
delightful, and George persuaded himself that no
injury was done by this disagreement, no affection
abated, nor no restraint occasioned ; but the next
time he differed from Jenny in opinion, he found
it inconvenient and unpleasant to him to be under
the necessity of watching his expressions, instead
of freely telling his mind to one who was so nearly
connected with him. When he looked forward to
a long life, which he hoped to spend with her,
and which might be marked with afflictions and
disasters, he lamented the uncertainty of obtaining
assistance or comfort from the consoling voice of
hisbosom friend. Sometimes the restraint which
he felt, caused a peevishness in his voice which
sounded like scolding or complaining, and he obser-
ved this produced the same disposition in Jenny,

As Jenny could not bear to be taught, and much
less, to be found fault with, so she never learnt to

 

 
134

be economical, otherwise her aunt, who was an
excellent house-heeper, would have instructed her
how to accomplish her business with more ease to
herself, and with much more advantage to her
family. Before she had two children, pecuniary
difficulties commenced, and were daily increasing.
She had given her husband so many instances of
her passionate temper, that he dreaded speaking
to her on those subjects which so nearly concerned
them both, nor would he mention his difficulties
in her presence, lest lamentations, upbraiding
expressions, or tears should be the consequence.
As to consolation, or assistance, he had no reason
to expect them from her. In such trying circum-
stances, he had recourse to his aunt’s wisdom, and
never failing sympathy. Seeing George and his
aunt whispering, and finding they stopped talking
whenever she entered, made Jenny fancy that they
were censuring her conduct, or at least, that her

husband found more pleasure in conversing with
his aunt, than with her. Her jealousy gave a
bitterness and durability to her passion, which

had not been the case formerly. Mabel and
George made it their constant study to give Jenny
no cause for displeasure, bat their frequent con-
‘sultations appeared unavoidable ; their embarrass-
ments were such, that they did not know but they
must dispose of their land, and experience con-
vinced them, that it was dangerous to confide in
Jenny, on any subject of importance. In a fit

of passion, she would tell the workmen, or her

neighbours, any thing that came into her head.
Mabel feared that the unhappy temper of his
wife, would at last, estrange George’s affections
from her. It was her beauty which first kindled
- his love, but her fine face was now often distorted
by passion, which left traces behind it, that were
becoming more and more perceptible, especially
as they were accompanied by a sour and suspicious
look, which is always the effect of envy or jealousy.

135

As for the reconciliations of lovers being the
venewal of love, they had become so frequent as to
have lost their charm, particularly as there could
beno dependence placed in vows and repentance,
which had so often been broken and disregarded.
Pecuniary difficulties, delicate health, necessity
to labour, and trouble of children, rendered more
troublesome by uneven treatment, all combined to
fret and perplex Jenny so much, that a word, or
a look would throw her into a passion. Many a
time did her distressed husband’s blood run cold,
when he heard her wishing to be dead out of his
sight, or that her children never had been born.
Being unable to calm her, he gave over attempts,
which only doubled his distress and disappoint-
ment. Mabel still retained some influence over
Jenny, she could net hinder her from giving vent
to her fury, but she prevented her from destroying
her children, or committing other violent actions,
for which, no tears or repentance could atone, no
care or industry could remedy or replace. And
it was by the mild and well timed interference of
this excellent woman, that the unhappy couple
were still united together. Each party could
frecly pour out their complaints, their repentance,

and their sorrows, into her charitable bosom, with

the certainty that she would make a goed use of
their confidence, and that her reproof would be
rather over, than under their deserts, yet Jenny
often told this peace-maker that she was the cause

of all their calamities, and that her absence alone

would make them happy. < Can you,” Mabel
would say, ¢ give me one example of my having
made mischief between you. My dear child, con-
sider what you say.” How true is it, that “a soft
answer turneth away wrath.” ¢ Wretch that I
am,” answered Jenny, ¢ you are the only friend
1 have in the world. I am not fit to live with
you, or with any one else.”

 

 

 
136

Before we proceed any farther in the history: of
Jenny, we must mention that her sister Polly, who
was not remarkably handsome, had always been
obliged to bear with the ill temper of her family,
and to perform most part of the work of the house.
By these circumstances her temper was subdued
before she was married to Pat Kelly, an honest
young lad, who had spent some years at sea, but
was now settled on a very small farm, which he
had taken on his return home. Polly was married
soon after her sister; the neighbours considered
that her match was far inferior to Jenny, which
they said was to be expected, as Polly was never
destined to be a fine lady. She was very sensible
of this, and wasproportionably industrious. ¢ The
diligent hand maketh rich.” Little or no time was
spent by this plain honest couple in disputes or
reconciliations; they both felt conscious of never

intending to offend each other, and they merited
no rebukes for their idleness or negligence. Every

year they became more comfortable. Pat took
great delight in rendering their house more con-
venient ; for his wife always told him, that every
alteration he made, ‘was just what she wanted, or
that it exceeded her expectations. Besides, he
observed that she was so regular, as to find proper
uses and places for every thing. Pat lived very
near his brother-in-law, and they often visited each
other. The comfort and good humour which
George observed at the Kellys’, did not make him
more satisfied with his own situation. Pat some-
times returned his visits, for being very good hu-
moured, he found amusement almost every where.
Unfortunately for Jenny, there was no subject on
which he could expatiate more largely, nor with
more pleasure, than the cleverness, the good
humour, and the virtues of his wife. He was also
very fond of entertaining his companions with
repetitions of the prattle of his children. During

137

such conversations, George was often heard fe
sigh, and Jenny, not unfrequently, made ill-
natured remarks, dictated by her Jealousy of Pol-
ly’s superior happiness. Not being accustom-
ed to conceal his sentiments, Pat made no
scruple when he saw things going wrong at his
brother-in-law’s, of remarking, ¢ that Zs little
wife would manage better, that 47s house was never
confused, that Ass darling babies were seldom
peevish 3 and worse than all, that Ze would not
allow of such-doings in %is little place.” Such re-
marks were sure to drive Jenny entirely off her
guard, and to give Pat more opportunities of mak-
ing comparisons. Pat was too fond of a joke,
which propensity was not sufficiently restrained by
good nature ; though not malicious, yet he made
a great deal of mischief in this unhappy family.

People who mix with the world, must expect to
meet with a variety of dispositions; and those who
are so unfortunate as to have a very strong will of
their own, must necessarily meet “with frequent,
and strong opposition. Passionate people grieve
and torment those who are immediately connected
with them, or their concerns; but these humours
appear so ridiculous to those who are indifferent to
them, as only to afford them opportunities of in-
dulging in jokes at their expense. George findin

it impossible to secure a safe retreat for his impli-
nents of husbandry, in his own confused dwelling,
was frequently obliged to borrow them from Pat;
he generally left them at home as soon as he had
done with them, but domestic discord affected his
memory as well as his concerns ; he had forgotten
to bring home a bill-hook, which he had borrowed.
Pat was obliged to come for it himself, “ Good
woman,” said he as he entered, “did you sce
my bill-hook ?  « Where could I see it ?” ana
swered Jenny; I have enough to do without tak-
ing care of your bill-hook.” ¢ It was Your own

 

 

 
——..-_"_ sta _—e sk tlesé be N

188

man,” returned Pat, ¢ who borrowed it from me

yesterday, but I don’t see it any where: who

knows but it is in that heap of rubbish under the
dresser.”  ¢ You may go,” says Jenny, ¢ where
there is no rubbish, for I wont have my place
rummaged by any one.” ¢ Sure it is not in
earnest you are, Jenny, my good girl,” says Pat,
laughing heartily. ¢ Now do you think, 1 won't
look for my own share? why then you are quite
mistaken, for nobody has a better right to that
pretty little bill-hook than the man who owns it,
and that keeps it hanging up in its own place too.”
Jenny was enraged—* do you think I stole it?
Eh! I'll let you know I’m not a thief, nor any one
belonging to me either, and what money we have,
was got fair and honestly on dry land.” ¢ Why
then, Jenny, my dear, I can’t say so much for my-
self, but I wish you’d give me my bill-hook, for
I don’t remember stealing that from the Trench:
I can tell you that I bought it on goed dry land.”

Jenny could not utter the passionate thoughts
which swelled her throbbing breast. She threw
every thing that was under the dresser about the
floor, at the imaminent risk of breaking her chil-
dren’s heads. At length she found the bill-hook.
¢ Don’t throw that at us, any how,” said Pat, who
was patiently standing beside her, wishing for his
bill-hook, and begging of the children to go a
little farther off.  ¢¢ I thank you for all your trou-
ble,” said he, ashe was going out, ¢ and I thank
Providence for my own little wife.” He then
turned back, and whispered in her ear—¢ Are
you sure that Polly is your whole sister”

Jenny was in no humour to assist her husband,
who just then entered to beg she would help to
bind the corn, as it was out of his power to hire
another woman. Jenny declared, she was never
brought up to bind corn—if George was poor, it
was not her fault; therefore, she had no right to

139

suffer by.it. «If you don’t earn money,” said
(George, you can’t expect to have it to spend.
It is well for you to have a bit of corn to bind :
only for it, I don’t know what would become of
us this hard summer.” Having so said. he walked
out to the field. Mabel seldom interfered till
Jenny’s passion had subsided; but she knew this
was a very urgent case. She represented it so to
Jenny as strongly as she could. She conjured her
% go oak, and he yo attend to every thing in
1c house during her absence, ¢1’]] o¢ en,”
said Jenny, ¢ since I can’t be let La
peace or rest, except I work like a black slave.”
I'hus saying, she rushed forward to the door. A
child, who was just learning to walk, was cautions.
ly making his way across the floor: he happened
to interrupt Jenny’s hasty progress. She eave him
a stroke on the head, which threw him down, and
stunned him. Her passion instantly fell—she
shrieked and fainted. © What was her dismay on
recovering, she thought her child was dead. ~ In-
stead of trying methods to restore him, she gave
herself up to all the violence of outrsgeous grief
ie Esher hair and wrang her hands, bewailing
ppy temper, and the fate of her favourite
child so loudly, that her husband entered to see
what was the matter. How great was his horror, on
finding his wife, to all appearance, mad.  « Oh |
kill me, kill me,” cried the wretched woman, oh
kill me yourself, instead of the hangman. Look
at your child that I have murdered.” The un-
happy father looked at his child, who was indeed
stupified, and very unlikely to recover. Mabel
who was always collected, even in the midst of
terror, had immediately sent for the apothecary
and in the mean time, endeavoured to soothe
the distracted woman. Many days expired be-
tore the fate of the child was decided, during
which time, Jenny excited the compassion of

 

 
ET ., =-=L

146

every one. IHer remorse was violent and
sincere. She felt like a culprit in her own
house, where moderate conduct would have ren-
dered her a person of consequence, her passions
had sunk her below insignificance. At length the
little boy recovered, and Jenny did not discover
any ill temper for a considerable time.
Soon after the adventure just related, the
small-pox madeits appearance in the neighbour-
hood. Mabel and her nephew often entreated
Jenny to have little Tommy inoculated with
the cow-pock; but she was prejudiced against
it, partly because her two eldest children had
caused her to lose two nights’ rest when they had
the cow-pock, and partly because her brother-in-
law, Pat Kelly, was a great advocate for it, and
had said mere to her on the subject than she could
bear. As George dreaded the consequence of a
little trouble, or fatigue te his wife’s temper, he
had not courage to insist on having tlie child in-
oculated. The more Jenny reprobated this most
fortunate discovery, the more convinced she was
that she was right: she worked herself into a be-
lief, that ¢ the good cld way of inoculating for
the small-pox was much the best, and the most
Tacky.” Under this impression, she had her fine
boy, (who was just restored to ber from the jaws
of death) incculuted with the small-pox. She
had it done privately.” The infection was no
sooner administered than her fears arose, and her
prejudices vanished. She did not tell her husband
of this experiment, till he observed her unusual
depression of spirits. As the deed was done,
George did not express much displeasure, and
Mabel, as usual, made ‘he best of what could not
be undone. The child was extremely fat, and
there was no time to prepare him for this dread-
ful distemper. The eruption appeared, and with
it every fatal symptom ; after - extreme suffering,

141

this little vietim of rashness did. As might
be expected, both parents were deeply af-
fected. George’s feelings had been early so well
disciplined, that he discovered no unbecomin
behaviour on the occasion. His aunt’s api
and the belief that the child was happy, afforded
him the greatest consolation. But J enny’s grief was
3) Immoderate, that she could neither give nor
take comfort, so that she was deprived of the onl
earthly alleviation of affliction. Tho’ Jenny’s 2eior
was more violent; yet, it was not so lasting as
George's, and thus this ill matched pair were scl-
dom of the same mind, either in Joy or sorrow
Very different were they from those happy people,
who, participating in ‘each others’ feelngs, their
griefs are divided, and their Joys are doubled.

It was natural to expect, that when George
could find no happiness at home, he would seck
has it where he might freely speak his mind, and
Fone je JN noting but good humour. At first

y vi s brother-in-law, who semetimes
treated him to a glass of grog, which he assured
him, raised the sailors above the fear ef the waves
or the French; either of which, in lis opinion,
was more to be dreaded, than the ‘tongue of o
teienceless woman. : R

One ray of comfort would have detained George
at home, but those rays seldom enlivened his fire-
side. The mild cheerfulness of his aunt was un-
observed amidst the clouds and storms which ga-
ford and raged through his comfortless habita-

Will the readers of this history undervalue
George’s amiable disposition, and set at nought his
guarded education, when it is related, that he gra-
dually became so discontented with home, that he
frequently tried to banish reflection in the ale-
house. “This circumstance shows how fatal to

¢very comfort, and even to the virtue of eur coms
anions, is an ungoverned temper, since he whe

>

-

 
143
142

. * where you are going, for I want to speak to you 7?
in and grief with patience, was driven. “Oh, aunt,” said he, blame myself more than
had borne pain 2 Be violent temper of his wife. you can blame me.” ~ « J know you do, my dear,
to the ale-house by c when we have recourse to im- and it is Pleasing to God that ‘we should blame
As is always the 8 yh order to deliver ourselves ourselves when we do wrong.”  ¢ Jg jt possible,”
proper. CED, wiih George had tried, proved replied he, ¢ that I could do any thing pleasing
from trouble; th A ad of a relief. When he wag to God 7” «J hope so, my dear. Don’t you re
§.AZ8raVAHON INS BE power to control him- member all the assurances we have, that repents
drunk, he lig focl to the flame of his wife's pas- ance Is acceptable to him,”
self; he added ue f her sicht to drown his care “Iremember, aunt, but there are different sors
sion, then flew ay bad habits, till he of repentance. When a man brings himself into
again, and i Pe ake any resistance. Often misery he must repent. I am in misery, aunt
was nolongor o hi a drunken idle fellow, who quite wretched—there jg no comfort for me—J
did Jenny call; ee her children to hardship and mean on earth, but I must go before I blame any
‘had reduced her oa able to deny the charge when one but myself.” ¢« Deqy George,” returned hig
to want. Ie was FneD drunken fits, and opened aunt, “have a little patience 3_compare your situg-
he recovered fi oh misery that surrounded him: tion with that of those wretched beings, who have
his eyes upon all t 3 re his command, his wife was committed robbery or murder, and who cannot
be Sind nop a Pep children cried for bread, and undo their dark deeds, nor make any reparation
in a constant Sy us be quietly sinking into the to those they have injured—you are not long ad-
his aunt A RN Gi he wl plunging all in ruin, dicted to drunkenness, and | am sure you will not
grave, He felt h pe of his own amendment, nor continue the practice. As for the other sufferings,
that there was he 10f his domestic misfortunes. which it may be your fate to bear, if vou endure
of dolivasangs from laint he had borne many mi- them with patience, and don’t attempt to fly from
‘Without much wali him to find that his own them, they will all be for your good ; they are
series, but i disirngiel and that he was now the J administered to you by Him, who knows what is
principles hac gis En ’s destruction ; and the best for you. ¢ Je chasteneth those he loveth, and
instrument of si ) 4 e morc incapable he felt |, pitieth his children,” Those last consolin
oftener he transgr Ci On one of those dread- words, which were originally uttered by one who -
of resisting og Skt the desperate resolution Vas acquainted with the designs of Providence,
ful mornings, he Li sorrows by drowning himself. fell, like refreshing dew, upon his agonized soul :
of flying from a k the natural impetuosity of WW. dread purpose was abandoned ; his sobs
His aunt, who ot uided and guarded by vented him from speaking ;
A he hb something of this kind. tained thejyp fearful look
reason, bad tong Si in his countenance ; and thanked their benefactress
She saw despair BS oing out without his spade, hign countenance, and his hand pressed her’s with
observing that 2 this most persuasive tone. such affection, as convinced ber, that he thought
she called him to o to the shop for tea and SU” there was something worth living for. She was.
Jenny had just go » dear,” said Mabel, Where OW satisfied, that he would not put an‘end to hig
gar, * ow a Ob; no matter, aunt,” was bos Kistence ; though she scarcely hoped, that any
reply, & Dear George, do tell me,” she repeated,
rep Ys

pre-
his eyes no longer re-
of desperation : they
they reflected her be.

: ” roa 0 eT % 4 —_—
= oo ——————

te RE

 
144

thing she could say, would cure him of ahabitso in.
veterate as that of drunkenness. This, she thought,
could only be accomplished by domestic comfort,
or by the influence of religion; which, when it
is established in the heart, regulates all the pas-
sions, and destroys every evil—from this, Mabel
had some hopes, as she knew that George’s vene-
ration for religion was unshaken. No oaths or
blasphemies had ever escaped his lips, even in the
midst of intoxication, or when great provocations
had excited his anger.

Philip Moore, a neighbour of George’s, who
was almost always drunk, made it his business to
inveigle as many people as he could into his bad
ways. Having formerly observed the sober con-
duct of George, and believing that his principles
were good, he did not attempt to corrupt him,
nor did he like the society of a person so different
from himself. But when George had unhappily

fallen into the habit of drinking, Philip locked

upon him as his destined prey. ~~ At the gaming-
tables he had often emptied the pockets of labour-
ers, carmen, or tradesmen; but George being a
farmer, was a much more desirable prize. The
gulph which is placed between good and bad ac-
tions, vice, and virtue no longer lay between them.
No contrivance or allurements were spared by
Philip to draw George as far into the paths of
wickedness as himself. He soon drained the purse
which was already very much exhausted. George
had scarcely recovered from the desperate resolu
tion of committing suicide, when Philip came to
ask him to play a game of cards with a set of fool-
ish young fellows, by which he would make up
all his losses. George had the courage to refuse
Philip went out, and in a few minutes a child
rushed in, crying that his father was dead. The
child was Philip's. George and his aunt hastened
to the place where the unhappy man had dropped

naked ing i i
‘ed, and lying in bed for this re

145

7. ." Ll iy , : ; : :
Sow i an apoplectic fit, * George had often heard
ir oppress her fears that this’ would be the
a 4 Ip, as similar instances had passed un
fh observation. It was visible to Georoe
1a Intoxication was the sole cause of thi T 1
event, : icti 3 oc hie
pens pos conviction of it flashed stron] u To
1s mind, and filled him with ¢ eran
png, 1 with the deepest remorse
> past conduct, and with thankfulness :
he had not vet sunk i i Syat
a y . unk so deep-in misery, :
- hau od round the lifeless body
y 5 0 each other all tl : Ee
tel : ; 1e fatal conse
" : . § < onsoe-
0s Bee Intoxication which they had witnessed
li 5 2 2 One of them who had just retuene i
ublin, had seen a m i x
which he had committed § “4 7 i i Rey
n a t 0 . >» . -
a mtoxication, *
A bo told a story of an acquaintance of his
ow ’ 9 0 > as drowned while in that state * He
vas e c j :
pik 2 ® Comp of carmen, and had fallen
‘ SS o om » a -
of \ 13 a river, in the middle of the
ght, and was not missed by his compani in
ig ad S S CO nions
nest oy os Pat Kelly desired thon
4 oy het ; an a few doors off, where 3 Soho
as then dying of a linge >

2rino disease In con 90,
( 1 a ate u

his fami :
5 Py to the lowest ebb of distress Geore
istened to all these stori i Reni Rarge
Involuntary pra les with silent attention
WE 2 p ayers escaped him, that he might
gL ered from future temptations, He agsj tod
arrvi “rr . «SSIS
the 0 ng home the lifeless body. But how ed
oo Sher > Theatacte to his unhappy wife
rr f With patient industr
: eldest daushter wer £oule poo
ntting stockings for oe thie PINON ng ud
i : rorthless i :
were bare. 4 man: th
5 Wik footed esselvey, their clothes I
lem, and hunger i FH
, was pictured in their
coun ; 8 as pictured in theiy
tenances. Sonic of the children were Ri

ason; and thus

# Facts,
G

 
146

were deprived of air, exercise, and the learnhe
which they might have obtained at a charitable
school. ~ George saw, that all this misery was oc-
casioned by the intemperance of his former com-
panion. ‘the price of one glass of whiskey would
have purchased a breakfast for two or three of
them. These reflections made a strong impres-
sion upon George’s mind; but the state of the
family when the lifeless body was presented to
them, was still more impressive. It awakened all
the affectionate feelings of his heart, and we are
happy to relate, that no persuasions of his compan-
ions could induce him to taste strong liquor, till
he had overcome the wish for it, and had habitu-
ated himself to staying at home; albeit, comfort
was far from taking up its abode in his turbulent
dwelling: but he had found, that an uneasy con-
science, and internal confusion was much harder
to endure, than even the discord created by the
temper of his wife.

Jenny had so often vexed, and sometimes in-
Jjured her neighbours, that she was not beloved
by them. .She thought it a meanness to bear with
any affront; ‘but so far from raising her conse
quence by what she-called her high spirit, she was
only ridiculed, and met with various humiliations.
AWhen she entered a neighbour’s house, some of
them were afraid to take notice of her; others
took pleasure in affronting her, which always had
the desired effect; and the moment she went away,
they spoke of her either with ridicule or compas-
sion. She had trusted so much to her passions
being “over in a minute,” that she thought nothing
of quarrelling with a neighbour. She flattered
herself it would be over in a minute with them too;
but it was not easy for them to forgive or forget
the abusive expressions she used to them, or the

injury she did their characters by a hasty word,

spoken of them to the first person she met. On

147

these accounts, she saw dislike expressed in the
countenances of many of her neighbours, coolness
in their manners, or bitterness in their expressions.
She attributed all this to the hardships, the cruelty,
the pride, the jealousy, or the envy of the world.
When she had nothing to lay to the charge of any
individual, she vented her spleen on the world in
general. She was angry both with those who
owed her money, and with people to whom shé
was in debt. The first was natural enongh, and
the last either dunned her, or she expected to be
dunned by them. But what is more extraordinary,
she was often displeased with her benefactors, ¢i-
ther because she felt undeserving of their kindness,
or that their offerings were too small, or that they
ceased obliging her too soon. But it is in vain to
endeavour to account for the whims of ill-tem-
pered people: they themselves know not what the
are vexed at. The fact is; that every circum-
stance is distorted by their own imaginations.
Jenny's opposite neighbour had very cross and
troublesome children; one of them threw her
little barking dog, which was neither a favourite
at home or abroad, into a stagnant pool of water,
which nearly fronted Jenny’s house. She happen-
ed to see the deed—her indignation rose, not that
she cared about the dog, but that Aer dog should
be thus insulted. She immediately ran out, and
threw the little boy into the same pool. His mo-
ther wes justly offended: the two women scolded
each other, and the little boy’s mother threatened
to summon Jenny before a magistrate—her hus-
band encouraged her to do so. During Jenny’s
passion, she was regardless of all those threats,
and was even pleased with the prospect of reveng-
ing herself in a solemn manner; for her displea-
sure so much magnified the faults of the boy and
his mother, that she thought the revenge she had

already taken, inswfficient to their deserts. But -

wale th IR Fin hi : i ns CEE se
hp RR reba BI ia us wh sey lioga my
— ns Sn HP i mine aii git ana orgs vm ——3

 
148

when her passion subsided, she discovered ‘her
own superior fault; and the terror of appearing
before a magistrate wrought such a downfall to
her pride, that she went to her adversary’s cabin,
and on her knees, implored forgiveness, The same
violent temper which drove her into such fury and
yevenge, magnified to her imagination, the danger
of appearing before a person in authority, whose
~ deliberate judgement could not be changed by the
tears or threats of a passionate woman. ~ She
knew that the, law must, and ought to take its
course. With some reluctance the mother of the
little boy yielded, to her entreaties. While under
the impression .of this humiliating circumstance,
‘Jenny held all violent proceedings in proper con-
tempt. Nevertheless, she took a dislike to this
‘woman, which she never conquered. It has often
been observed, that ill-tempered people take dis-
likes to, those they have injured, on that very ac-
~count. :

It has been remarked, that the irregularities. of
-Jenny’s temper influenced all her domestic conduct

and affairs, One evening that she was washing
clothes, and her child was unusually peevish with
getting tecth, she forgot to boil potatoes for her
husband’s supper, Mabel had gently reminded
her of it, and then proposed doing it herself; but
finding either the one or the other was disagreeable
to Jenny, she said no more. George had been work-
ing all dav, and was gathering in his little harvest
by moon-light ; he felt deserving of a comfortable
.meal, and of a pleasant reception.

. When he entered, fatigued and hungry, and saw
no sign of his supper, and aslittle appearance of good
humour, he expressed. both surprise and digplea-
sure. Jenny's temper immediately took fire, her
eyes flashed rage, her lips Tverd: she flew from
‘one end. of the cabin to the other ; boxed the sick
child for crying, who cried the more; over-turned

149

the stools and tubs which she had irregularly lef
in the middle of the floor, and over-sot a sauce-
pan of hot water, upon’ her aunt’s foot.” The
more she hurried, the more confusion she made;
and’ the increasing confusion increased her rage.
In going out of the house for water, the aflvighted
dog ran under her feet ; she tumbled over him, he-
velped, she knocked him on the head with the
pail she had in her hand, then threw her feverish
frame on the next chdir, while she bound up a cut
upon her leg, occasioned by the full,  IHer eldest
little girl attacked the dog with a stick, because
he had hurt her mother. Mabel, who was an
afflicted, but a quiet witness of all this common
tion, being afraid ‘the dog would bite the child, ,
and being shocked at such early cruelty, rebuked
ber with the wutmost mildness, = « Your aunt,”
said the misguided Jenny, « is glad the dog threw
me down—she won’t let you beat him, because.
she hates your mammy. Ts not your aunt & very
bad woman?”  « No, no,” answered the child,
“ aunt Mabel is not a bad woman, she is the best:
of us all.” Jenny declared she would no longer
five in a house, where her children were taught to
hate her, and where, even the dogs were allowed to
torment her. She threw on her cloak, and limped
out of the house as fast as she was able. In her
confusion she did not recollect the pool opposite
to her house—she tumbled into it. Her agitated"
blood was thus suddenly ehilled—she was terrified,
believing it to be a deadly chill. All dripping and:
trembling, she returned to her house—her Fus-
band and Mabel seing her deplorable condition,
stripped her, and put her into a warm bed : they
used every means in their power to restore her
natural warmth, but in vain. Next day it was’
equally impossible to cool her, or-to quench her
thirst. Poor Jenny’s sufferings were greatly ang
mented by her own impatience. But her strength

 
156

soon failed, her spirits were fled, and during the
intervals of reason, she cleaved to Mabel for com-
fort and support, in-so-much that she would sel-
dom suffer her to leave her bed side. Her reco-
very was long doubtful. During this tedious time
of suffering, she became fully sensible of the
beauty and excellence of a well regulated temper,
and of the defor...ity and inconvenience of ungo-
verned passions. ¢ Ah, my dear aunt,” said she,
“ you know the value of a mild temper, and in me
you have seen the misfortune of being peevish and
angry : then I entreat that you will watch over my
poor babies, tell them how good it is to be patient,
and quiet, and regular, and then every hurry of
business will settle by degrees. Surely when I

have been sick, and you had to mind the house,
beside taking good care of me, I wondered how you
did every thing without any bustle. And dear aunt,
tell my children, that when they are on a death-

103 Ra: welll virion iw tive Shesarrivt 13: wes pil
aly rill wannoe wir avr tO it »
Vesey el €Y Wr 2ia vr vasvana er any VAIL teas of bo stnli ortn

while to be uneasy .or angry about trifles; at
such a time, the most vexatious things will ap-
pear trifling. They would then give all the world
that they had never wronged or offended any bo-
dy. Nothing now feels so pleasant to me, as the
recollection of having sometimes restrained my
passion, when your advice has taken effect upon
me. And tell my poor children, they don’t know
the moment it may please God to end their lives.
And oh ! how dreadful to die in the midst of one’s
anger.” The good woman promised to attend to
the children, if Jenny was not spared to them,
and to give them the best advice she was capable
of. She said to her husband, ¢ George, if ever
you think of marrying again, make yourself ac-
quainted with the temper of your wife. You
know I was counted handsome, yet who thought
any thing about me when I was in a passion.
Neither beauty, nor riches, nor being a clever

* how much we all suffer

151

house-keeper, could m

ake up to vo tha
want of a good temper, 7 you for the

Ay Songs you know
e my passion :
now, my dear George, will HL
will you only remember me, by the “sufferings I
have caused you 77 « Forgive you! : How con
you ask me such a question at this time? Sarely
I always forgave you when you were in health,
Thanks to my aunt, I was taught not to dwell
upon past injuries. My dear Jenny, I shall re-
member you as the choice of my ’ youth and
as the mother of my children; ‘and any ise
pleasure you have shewn me, I shall reflect
won, ) “and. by your anxiety for the wel
fa 2.0 the family,” «Ap» replied Jenny, faint-
1s ‘who can say, that even-tempered people don’t
forgive injuries as soon as hasty people; surely
jos 00d semper which teaches us to make the best,
b ic present and the past.” It may be
your comfort after I am gone, that I had is
long fit of sickness, which has NE ,
i ) C ast
you prevented’ me fiom feavaing. the world, without
Wo a, or being forgiven by my fellow-crea-
o>» and appearing before the Lord, who has so
viten commanded us to love and forgive one ano-
ther,” J he night after these conversations Jen-
ny sunk into a state of stupor.. The wound on
her log had shown symptoms of mortification
carly m the disease. This fatal symptom was now
confirmed, and the penitent Jenny closed a life
much of which was consumed in fruitless an of
and but few. of her actions afforded her any a
tor pleasing reflections. That countenance which
once bloomed in youthful beauty, or was convulsed
with anger, now lay stiff and motionless.
George's property had been almost all squan-
dered by Jenny's bad management, and he was
too heartless to improve his situation. Mabel had

aught me so much,

 
a poor prospect for her old age; but she was pa-
tient and resigned, looking forward with pious
hope, to that region, where every thing is rightly
distributed, all losses repaired, and afflictions
comforted. George sold his interest in his land in
order to pay his debts; he only reserved a little
garden, his house, and a few roods of potatoe
round. He became a day-labourer, and was
afforded by his aunt all the assistance in her
power. Under her mild and judicious govern-
ment, the temper of the children improved, and
they became an increasing delight to their fond
father.

Arthur Marphy, the landlord, was subject to
a violent cholick, which threatened his life every
time it attacked him. He was hated by his neigh-
bours, and not much better liked by the wretched
servants who lived with him. In his illness, when
the possession of money or land could not ease
his pain, or compose his agitated mind, he always
sent for Mabel—he knew he had injured her, but
he did not read it in her countenance—her calm
resolution. and sccthing advice was the only prop
he could lay holdof. Atlength hisdisorder attacked
his worn-out constitution with so much violence,

as to put a period to his existence. During his

last illness, Mabel never left him. After his death,
a memorandum was found, in his own band-
writing, by which it appeared that he had wronged
Mabel, in not renewing her lease, to atone for
which, he left her the same piece of ground, at
the small rent which he paid for it himself. Every
one rejoiced that Mabel had a prospect of spend-
ing her latter days in case and comfort. As for
her, she thanked Providence, and enjoyed her
prosperity with the same humility that she had
endured adversity.

George had now something to work upon ; he

recovered his spirits, and, in due time, he married

133

a worthy young woman, who was not extr
handsome, but whose face was more pleasing th
longer she was known. Mabel lived with ra
happy couple for many years: she enjoved tole
ble health, and the wrinkles of ol ys Cr
| old age were not
able to rob her countenance of that serenit whicl
indicates a good mind and a happy a oi
Respecting Pat Kelly and his wife there re
mains little to be said, for though instances of Kd
ness, and mutual forbearance “are the supports of
domestic happiness 5 yet being more easily felt
than described, they make he great fa oe
story. Pat had become fond of grog ‘While he
was at sea; but the smiles of his wile and tl :
endearing prattle of his children become ior
engaging, and afforded him so much pleasant
reflections when he lay down at night, : i

sent from then, that he never found it necessary

emely

s

 
THE SCOTCH PLOUGHMAN.

Mr. Nucentlived in a part of Ireland, whats Hee
modern improvements jz farming Rare Bo
r were

derstood, and where the poor wel shiy

i i had read in the newspa

idle and ignorant. He ofp the Daven
h ploughs and Scotch ploug

ic og ltivate his land after the

ing desirous to cultiva d af )

= Domes he wrote to Mr. Frazer, his fond ja

Edinburgh, to request that be would eh um

these two great instruments of agriculture.

Nugent hearing that Scotchmen were very eager

. . h
to leave their own country, imagined that bot

the above-mentioned articles Jud ig 2 >
i isappointed. ,
very short time, but he was dis fod, Jose
Pr had not been negligent in making ine
ries, and in going in person to seck a pest
: is friend ; but some o
ploughman for his friend ; tl e
Hie ling to transplant their young Bmjiiss, otha
were reaping the pemand 3 jhe 35 Ind Ty ie
ich they had cultivated their
ye OT Many adventurous young men

- . d
were to be found, who were well enough incline

 

i153

to travel, but they had either an old father or mo-
ther, or uncle, or aunt, whom no considerations
could induce them to desert; and not a man
would think of hiring himself, even for one sea
son, to work at a distance from his family, who
might starve or beg in his absence. Mr. Nugent
was surprised at this account, as he knew that ma-
ny of his own tenants made it their practice to go
to England, or to a distant part of Ireland, during
the busy season; while their wives. and children:
went to beg, and the house was locked up during
their absence, :
Repeated disappointments did not: discourage :
Mr. Frazer from continuing his inquiry, and at
length the desired. person was. discovered. His.
name was Andrew Maedonald.. His mother, who
had been long a widow,. had died a few months.
before, and he had not ceased grieving for the ob- -
ject of his tender care.. His only sister was maz-
ried, and Andrew’s ties to his native country were
loosened.” Mr. . Frazer was directed to furnish.
him with money to. defray. his ‘expenses on the-
journey.. The plough was easily procured, .and
both man and plough arrived safely at Mr, Nu-
gent’s.. This. gentleman was surprised that Anp-
drew stood erect before him, and with a blunt ei-
vility, | requested to:know.where he was to lodge
that night. . He was informed, and also told, that -
he should have something te eat and drink imme .
diately. . Andrew thanked his new master, but
said he was neither hungry nor dry. «If you
please,’’ said he, “Iwill shew you the account of my
expenses on the journey.” 4 You need shew me np
account, said Mr. Nugent, I ordered Mx. Frazer
%o give you what money he thought proper, and:
I won't give you a farthing more.”
“ I.never wronged any one,” replied Andrew, .
* and. if you take the trouble to look. over-thiz -

 
156

account, you will sce that I don’t want to wrong
you.’

« That is the old story over again,” said Mr.
Nugent, ¢ I hear this every day of my life, and

et not a day passes but I am wronged.”

« My account will shew you,” replied the pa-
tient Scotchman : « If I was in my own dear
country, my word would be taken, but I cannot
expect this where 1 am not known ; for which rea-
son 1 have kept an exact account.”

¢& Your account,” said Mr. Nugent, ¢ who cares
for your accounts ? 1 don’t want a clerk, I want
a good ploughman. 1 want a man that can make
straight lines in a ficld, and not crooked ones on
paper.”

¢ In my country,” replied Andrew, ¢ the same

hand can guide the plough and the pen. We can

cultivate our fields, and calculate the expenses of
cultivation. However, Sir, since you won’t run
your eye over my account, I shall give you the

change I owe you without any more ado. But I’

must first look at my account to see how much
itis.” i
Andrew then-opened his box, and carefully took
up the little articles which it contained ; laying
them on one side, till he met with his pocket-book,
which was of good black leather. ~ His master
eyed him all the while with attention, and won-
dered that a ploughman should have all thése con-
veniencies. Andrew opened his account, and re-

marked ‘that he owed Mr. Nugent 11s. Tide—

« Could not you say half a guinea at once?” said:
his master: Andrew repeated, the money, Sir,
is exactly 11s. 71d.” This transaction raised An-
drew’s character and abilities very much in the
estimation of his master, who, without consider-

ing whether his own mind would change, or ‘whe-

ther Andrew’s future conduct would merit his
confidence, promised the young stranger a house

 

157

and garden rent free, for the ensuing year: pro-
vided he would pay some little attention, which
would net be troublesome, to the general business
of the farm, in- addition to his Work. Andrew
thanked his master, and expressed his hope that
such an agreement might be advantageous to both
parties. ¢ If it is profitable to you, what need you
mind whether it is so to me or not?” But Andrew
well knew that the good fortune which was de-
pendent on his master, must be of short duration
if be was unsuccessful. :
« I don’t wish,” said he, ¢¢ to injure another b
my own success, and I know very well, if this
mode will not answer you, it can’t long be of an
benefit to me.” ® wy.
¢ Very well,” retorted his master, ¢ I perceive
you are a cunning rogue, that can see before you;
ut they say a Scotchman can’t see before him
when he faces his native eountry.” Andrew look-
ed grave at being called a rogue; the joke on his
country did not please him any better, and not-
withstanding his master’s fair promises, he felt no
partiality for, nor confidence in a man who doubt-
ed his word one minute, offered to reward him
for common honesty the next, and in almost the
same breath, called him a rogue, and jested on
his dear native country. If he had possessed less
patience, and less good sense, the Scotchman
would have packed up his box, and returned to
that dear native country without farther delay;
but he had accustomed himself to reason upon
passing occurrences, and to endure difficulties
which determined him to give his present situation
a fair trial. It was probable his master might be
as good as his word, and if he should not, Andrew
felt assured, that his own superior knowledge of

tarming, where it was so ill understood, would in-

sure him success in the employ of another, i
ure J i er, if no
for himself. ey : J

- .

 
158

Mr. Nugent lay long in bed, his labourers took
advantage of this, and never went to their work
till late in the morning. Andrew had no
idea of receiving payment for eight hours
work, and doing only four or six, therefore
he was always early in the field, and surprised his
master every day by the quantity, as well as the

neatness of his work. He soon perceived that the

labourers disliked him on account of the compa-
risons made betwixt his diligenee and their ne.

glect. They even dared to censure him for his.

industry, and took occasion to disoblige him ma-
ny ways; but he was. not te be intimidated, far
less corrupted. A: Scotchman: is naturally coura-

eous, and conscious integrity made Andrew stand
’ arity

so upright amongst his enemies,. that they found.
it impossible to frighten him, or meve him from-

the firm purpose of his soul.” Andrewhad a good
heart and a clear head; he saw through the faults

of his new companions’ good dispositions, which.
wanted and deserved cultivation. He loved his

Creator, of course he loved his fellow creatures;
and thankful for the benefits he had received from
education, he thought it right to share them with

others; therefore, whenever he saw a hint would be

well taken, he failed not to throw before them the
duty they owed to their master, and the happiness
they would feel at having done their duty, besides the
value of a good character in the eyes of the world.

He found the warm and generous Irish heart was.

open to advice when it was given in a gentle, kind

manner, without assuming a superiority over them..

Then he was always willing to instruct them in

the best method of doing work ; and in a manner

so humble, quiet, and civil, that it was a pleasure
to learn any thing from him ; they found him »lso
ready to oblige them in any thing consistent with

his duty to his master, and thus his influence con--
tinually increased, as did their happiness end his

 

189

own, when an accidental circumstance raised him
still higher in esteem.

One morning, soon after Andrew had gone to
his work, he heard a boy cry out for help in the
next field. He sprung over the fence, and found
that a cow which belonged to one of his fellow
workmen, had fallen into a deep pit. The little
boy had been left to watch that the cow should
not go near this pit; he had neglected his busi-
ness, and was now in the utmost affliction. He
proposed to Andrew to kill the cow, haul her up
with ropes, and say she had met with an accident
elsewhere. Andrew paid no attention to such ad-
vice, but silently putting his hand to his forehead,
considered for a few minutes what was to be done.
The result was, that with all speed, he returned
to the house, yoked a cart and horse, and brought
a load of manure te the side of the pit. He
emptied the cart, and sent the boy for another.
He threw the manure by little and ‘little into the
pis, the cow still trod upon it, and was thus gra-
dually raised tothelevel of the field, and walked out
almost unhurt.* The boy’s surprise and gratitude
prompted him to tell his father the whole story,
at the risk of a beating for his carelessness, and
this good-natured and ingenious action, gained
for Andrew the veneration of the little boy, the

friendship of his family, and the admiration ‘of the

neighbourhood.

Andrew became a frequent visitor to the family
of James Kenagh, a slater. His house was the
most decent in the neighbourhood, and his wife and
daughters the most industrious. Honor, the eldest,
was.a pretty girl,always dressed plain, though per-
fectly clean, and was remarkable for her good temper

and kind heart. Of this an instance occurred,
which it may not be intrusive to introduce here.

Honor hearing ‘that ‘her neighbour, Molly Len-

* A Scotth gentleman tried this method with success in the
County Kildare, :

 
160

non, was sick, went to visit her, and in order to
entertain her, whileshe sat by her bedside, she talk-
ed of every pleasant circumstance which had late-
ly occurred, for she believed Molly’s complaint
was chiefly on her spirits. When she mentioned
the success of Mary Carty, who was nursing for
Mrs. Simpson, she observed that Molly grew pale:
¢ What ails you, Molly,” inquired her young
friend, who was not a little surprised at the reply,
¢¢ | never hear of that woman but it makes me
sick, and it is she that is the cause of my sickness
this minute.” And then observing Honor look-
ed astonished, she proceeded with a long story of
one neighbour having overheard another neigh.
bour, that was told by another in confidence, that
a fellow servant of Mary Carty’s heard her telling
her uistress, that Molly Lennon had not taken
proper care of the child that she had nursed for
Mrs. Simpson. ¢ Why, I tell you, continued the
sick woman, it scalds my very heart that such a
thing should be said of me, and I as fond, aye,

fonder of little Henry Simpson, my darling, beau-

tiful baby, than ever I was of my own poor crea-
tures | Did not I give him as much white bread
as he could eat, when my own had hardly enough
of potatoes. And more than that, she told her
mistress, that I put his little elegant clothes upon
my own brats. I took a pain in my stomach the
minute I heard it, and it’s long before I'll get the
better of it; but she is making her fortune there,
and going to be set up in a shop, and thought
ever so much about; she that only nursed one
little girl, and I that nursed two fine boys,
here I am as you see me.” © Honor did not con-
tradict what she knew nothing about; but while
Molly was speaking, she resolved to relieve her
from this distress. if it was in her power, for she
was unwilling to believe that Mary Carty could be
so base as to endeavour to ruin another, in order

161

to establish herself. She soon came back to Mol-
ly with .a countenance even more pleasant than
usual, and had the satisfaction of telling her, that
she heard a letter read from Mrs. Simpson, in
which she praised Molly Lennon’s care very much,
and particularly mentioned the great account she
had, of her affection to Master Henry, which she
heard from nurse Carty. Molly sat up in her
bed in amazement, and said she felt as if she had
awoke from a frightful dream. Then Honor,
with great modesty and gentleness, ventured to re-
present to her neighbour, that she might have
been spared all this uneasiness, if she had consi-
dered that it is very common for a story first
to be misunderstood, then to be told with ex-
aggerations, and to be repeated again and again,
by people who, without intending to tell. igs,
give it the colour of their own passions or hie
mours, for which reason, Honor begged her friend
would hereafter always hope for the best, till she
could satisfy herself of the truth of a story at the
fountain head.

The character of Honor, more than her beauty,
made an impression on Andrew’s he=rt; lie never

“4

EAT hn aver dnes ann nee mce aches 3 * 2
saw nor out she Brsughi his sister to his recollec-

tion, and as he listened to her singing at her wheel,
he thought the Irish songs were almost as sweet

as the Scotch. Indeed, he found a great si-
milarity between the Irish language and the
Erse, and he was willing to persuade him-
self, and his new friends were very willing to
be persuaded, that the Irish and Scotch had ori-
ginally been one nation. He found the better he
knew the people he lived amongst, the stronger
claim they had upon his regard; but especially
his affection for young Honor increased, and he
offered her his hand. = Andrew was a comely
young man, and so well educated, according to
the custom of his country, that he was a fit com~

 
162

panion for a tradesman’s or farmer's daughter;
Honor, was of this opinion, but her father and mo-
ther would not hear of their daughter marrying a
ploughman. Andrew was sorely disappointed
when he was desired to think no more of the girl
for whom he had a most sincere affection, and he
found it impossible to look towards any one else
for a wife, Honor was equally steady in her at-
tachment to him, but she submitted to her fate.
Her sense of duty and his sense of honour, would
not permit them to think of a clandestine mar-
riage, but various modes of life occurred to the
lover, instead of following the plough, which was the
cause of his disappointment. However, he dis-

missed all these schemes from bis mind, and re-
solved to adhere to that business which he under-
stood well, and which he hoped would gradually
be the means of promoting him to a situation in
life more agreeable to James Kenagh.

To be-
come a steward, or to have a farm of his own was
his highest aim, and this he kept constantly in his
view. No discouragements were able to destroy
his hopes: He would say in his own mind, “ It,
with all my suwuZole, 1 cannot attain either of
these, I shall, notwithstanding, be the lene
ploughman by my industry.” By indefatiga y
exertions, he had rendered half an acre of ground,
the richest little field on the town-land. His gar-
den was. also well cultivated, and supplied him
with a constant succession of crops. All this was
done before or after working hours. Andrew’:
leisure would have passed heavily and sorrowfully
along, so far from his native land, and labouring
under disappointed love, but for these occupations,
and in wet or wintry evenings, he amused and in
proved himself reading. He had brought 2 Ser)
collection of books with him from Scotland, anc
he borrowed some from the country school-master.
Situated as Andrew was, it is probable he might

have had recourse to the alehouse or gaming-ta-
ble, were it not for his love of reading. With de-
light and peculiar animation, he used to describe
the Sundays and the winter evenings, he had spent
in former times with his mother and sister. Ano-
ther employment of his leisure, was planning a
little benefit society ; he was so much beloved and
esteemed, that he accomplished it with less diffi-
cuity than he expected. Each labourer laid aside
a penny a-week, and Andrew prevailed upon his.
master to take charge of the money, himself keep-
ing the accounts, and relieving Mr. Nugent of any
trouble, except to receive and hand out the mo-.
ney. This penny entitled the subscriber to. re-
ceive one shilling per week in sickness, and was
found to be a great advantage to them.. Mr. Nu-
gent perceiving how useful this little fund was, in-
creased it by his own bounty, and becoming more
and more interested in the concerns of his poor te-
nantry, his attachment to them mcereased, which
of course was repaid by theirs to him. Thus, this
young man, by his perseverance, honesty, and
good sense, was the means of a material reforma-
tion in that part of the country, and beth land-
lord and tenants, bad cause to love the namo of
Andrew Macaonaia. :

The agent of a gentleman who resided in Eng-
land, had long been casting a wistful eye upon the

Scotchman, with whose assistance he thought he

would reform the land, so as to surprise his em-
ployer. He often threw out hints to Andrew,
but in vain, At length he spoke out, and offered
him a bribe to leave his present master: Andrew
was proof against the bribe, but proposed that the
agent should speak openly to Mr. Nugent on the
subject ; but this the agent did not choose to do.
The labourers on Mr. Nugent’s land, who loved
and valued Andrew too much to be willing to lose
him, contrived to let their master know of the

 
164

transaction, and he determined to reward the in.
tegrity of his ploughman, by letting him have ten
acres of land at a moderate rent, on condition that
he would continue to plough for him till he had
instructed another, to be able to supply his place.
Andrew taught a man on his own ground, and
made him so expert, that he was soon able to re-
sign an employment which had been such a bar to
his happiness. Ie was now a small farmer, and
about this time, his master falling sick, as he had
neither son or steward to attend to his business,
he left the management of it to Andrew, who had
more work done under his inspection in one
month, than his master ever had got accomplished
in two. Yet the horses looked well, and the tools
and tacklings were all in good order; and what
surprised Mr. Nugent still more, Andrew brought
him a clear, well written account of all the money
which he had paid and received. All notes and
receipts were varcfully filed, and nothing was
astray: For this, Andrew took no merit to himseli,
he had but simply performed his duty, and should
have blamed himself, or another, who had done
less in the like circumstances. ‘The consequence
was, that Mr. Nugent made Andrew his stewards
and now being both a farmer and a steward, he
renewed his proposals to Honor, and they were
united with the hearty good will of her parents.
Many wondered at Andrew’s patience in waiting
for Honor, and at his faith in hoping his situation
would alter, to which Andrew replied, Patience
and a good fire would roast an ox: Patience and
warm affection gained me a good wife.”

he disappointed to

HIGH SPIRIT.

In the course of Tom II
perienced many inconv
losses, by professing to

anagan’s life, he ex-

eho, vexations, and
. : : ave what
spirit. Tom’s father and grand 8 on Sond
nm the town in whi arte ere born
‘hich they lived .

hi d and died, andi
w ‘ : ¥ €d, an
pic Tom ho var born. “They were + yoy
ones Hui. . . . >
no 4 thy Der and always had

4 S ey cou acco 3 i ;1 > .
neigl ire accomplish, for their
it hos gave them the preference to people
ceeded jo thet were less acquainted. “Fom i
wll Nis father in his ‘business; and beine his
nly child, he also poss Yorle hg his
his father had the ed a little property which

. gathere tar! Eds

extremely clever, ‘but AS Ei Fle
fathers had been. 1ligent as his fore

and preferen he dine upon the friendship
sufficient i : | be neighbours, he did not take
1 s to be punctual uw
which the al, as to the time in
work was expected to b

act in i ne 0 xx done, ‘or ex-

obeying orders, which induced those whom
employ other smiths, Tom

 
166

weconted this—he was offended, and frequently
spoke in his family of the ingratitude and sclfish-
ness which he experienced, and how differently his
father had been treated. Neither himself nor his fa-
mily were conscious that the faultlayin his own con-
duct, and not in the customers; his wife and chil-
dren, joining with himin his complaints, they excited
one another to be discontented with their sitwation,
and this they called a good spirit, which scornedto
put up with affronts. Yet this spirit, far from in-
suring them respect, was the cause of it daily di-
minishing; and though Tom was an honest man,
and of moral conduct, he found himself going
back in the word, for want of constant employ-
ment; but instead of endeavouring to recall his
customers, he maintained his high spirit, and
proposed to his family their removing to another
place. It was their joint opinion, that neglect
from strangers would be more easily endured than
that which they fancied they experienced from their
old neighbours. Tom Flanagan felt some secret re-
grets when a conclusion was come to for leaving
the place to which he was accustomed from his in-
fancy; the fields where he gathered cowslips, and
the trees which he had climbed when a boy. Ma-
ny tender circumstances of his early friendship
rose to his recollection, and would have softened
down his high spirit, if he had not unfortunately
struggled against his better feelings, and if he had
not desired his cousin, Jemmy Crawford, to in-
quire for a situation for him in the town where he
kept a shop. He was almost sorry when Jemmy
Crawford wrote to him, that at the head inn of
the town a good smith was now wanted, for Tom’s
heart yearned more and more towards his old
neighbours, whom ‘he believed he could still live
comfortably with. But to draw back now would
Jet down his high spirit so much, that he dismissed
all thoughts of it, and he left his native place and

she is worthy of.”

167

oid neighbours with an affected air of indiffer
ence and disdain, which they repaid in the same
manner, though a long look, and a wish that they

- might do well, pursued the departing family.

When the Flanagans arrived at their néw place
of abode, they were kindly welcomed by their
cousin Crawford, who had a very agreeable, and
a very good woman to his wife, two boys, and a

pretty, modest girl, about sixteen years of age.

They were invited to their house till their own
was put into repair ; and the idea which the Fla-
nagans entertained of the spirit of their cousin,
Jemmy Crawford, was much raised by their being
witnesses to a proposal which he made to his wife

and which he was the more ready to make, be-
cause they were present, and to maintain, because
he saw their surprise and admiration rose, while
he supported his dignity. ¢ Itell you,” says Jem~

my to his wife Kitty, ¢ our Sally is a right sort

of a girl, pretty and genteel, and it is a thousand
pities she should not be set off to the best advan-
tage. The Squire’s daughters are not so good-
looking ; and if she got a little of such learning
as they are getting, I think it would be only what
ie is. hy ¢« My dear Jemmy,” replie
his wiser wife, ¢ Sally is a good girl indeed, and
the way to keep her so, is not to let her forget her~
self: she is well taught enough for her station, and
if you want her improved, Mr. Horan, the school-
mastex, can be engaged to come two or three
evenings in the week, to set her sums and copies.
She is 2 good worker at her needle, & humble,
dutiful girl; and I am afraid, if we send her to a
boarding-scheol, it will do her more harm than
good, besides straitening ourselves to pay the ex-
penses of it, and being laughed at for our folly,
as people deserve to be, when they aim at what is
out of their line of life.” Jemmy saw his cousin

Flanagan look, as if he expected a spirited an-

 
168

swer, and he resolved. he should not be disap.
pointed ; and therefore, raising his voice, he said,
I tell you, it is not out of our line of life to give
~our only daughter an education that may advance
her above shop-keeping. I have spoken to Mus,
Tourelle, and I will not go back of my word. Do
you get her ready, for next week she shall go to
the boarding-school, and let there be no “more
words about it.”

Though Tom thought his cousin shewed a fine
high spirit, both in wishing to set off his daughter,
and in carrying his point, yet there was something
in Kitty’s manner that he could not but admire,
nor could he think her mean-spirited, though she
had not the lofty notions of Jemmy. He per-
ceived that she submited of course to her husband’s
determination, he applauded her wisdom, in doing
s0, and wished that the time might come, when
he might be able to send his girls to a boarding-
school. His wife saw, with a degree of envy, the
preparations for this event. Little did she sus-
pect, that the mother of the distinguished girl
was far from being an object of envy. This sensible
woman well knew, that it was exceedingly impru-
dent for them, to contract expenses that could
be avoided ; and she dreaded the effect this change
of situation might have on her daughter, in whose
young heart a tumult was raised, between the hope
of vying in accomplishments with the squire’s
daughters, and the pain of parting with her pa-
rents and brothers. Poor Sally wept much, while
her mother, seated beside her, held her hand, and
ina kind voice, thus spoke to her, My dear
child, your father loves you so well, that he is
putting himself to an expense, which we can badly
afford, to give you more advantages of learning
than you could have expected from onr way of
living. But you must remember that you are not
on a footing with the young ladies who are to be

169

your companions at the boarding-school, and do
not imagine that you have a right to dress, or
spend money like them. Behave yourself with
modesty and civility among them, not cringing,
but obliging, and this will secure you from the
slights which may be thrown upon you, by those
inconsiderate young girls, who think that family
and fortune entitle them to be rude; though there
are many so well bred, that you will be in no
danger from them. Believe me, Sally, you will
have your trials, and may often wish to be at
home; however, strive to content yourself, and
make the best use of your time. I am glad to
hear, that at Mrs. Tourelle’s, the girls are taught
to make and mend their own clothes: be sure, at-
tend to that, and your reading, and writing, and
ciphering; and remember, that though you are
from under our care, you are at all times under
the notice of your heavenly Father, who will
give you strength to withstand every temptation,
whether great or small. The temptations that
you will be most likely to meet with, are pride and
anger. To think yourself the better for being at
a boarding-school, and to take offence at those
that will look down upon you. Watch over your-
self, praying for strength to be able to keep such
things from your mind. Remember, that by
keeping you at a school, we lessen our property,
and of course you will be the poorer if you do not
strive to make it up by diligence there, and when
you come home : and let the thought of this keep
you humble, and then you will be the gentler, and
better beloved. Heaven bless you, my sweet
Sally, be a good girl, and Providence will protect
vou.”

Jemmy Crawford particularly desired that his
daughter should be taught music and drawing.
She was accordingly put under the care of the
masters who taught these arts.

: i

If she {lt vain

 
170

at the prospect of obtaining these ymeRpesied
accomplishments, she was sufficiently humbled
by finding herself utterly unable to natn
them. She scarcely knew one tune from anot er,
neither had she any skill in blending colours,
much less in shading flowers. Her companions
would have laughed at her, if her unaffected Po
desty had not disarmed ridicule. She was much
more successful with her needle, and the festa
which she acquired at making and mending her
clothes, comforted her for her deficiency m what
£ seful. : abe
i Fsegen got very good business in Be
new residence, yet he was daily merged ot t Ne
want of respect in his new neighbours, whic : 2
thought his abilities and circumstances Sean ol
The contrast between these and those he od ety
often caused a secret sigh, and sometimes a Det
of indignation. However his manners nig t be
disliked in his native place, his chaser Ww "
known, and his honesty unquestioned. i
was a stranger, and he observed that his eng oy i
made as close a bargain as they could with hir :
for his work, and kept a close watch over they
iron. Conscious that there was no cause for t in
suspicious conduct, he found it very Siku !
put up with such affronts. But he did pu ;
with them when they came from the is
the head-inn; for itis ‘a just remark, tht 2
proud and the passionate contrive to gone go
dispositions from their superiors, or where 4 el a
terest is nearly concerned. The restraint ich oe
high spirit of Tom Flanagan suffered in t is ;
ter, broke out elsewhere; and on the least app e
_hension ‘that his small customers shewed a wan A
confidence in his skill, or in his integrity, g he
dained explanation, and refused to i k Bb
them. On their part, they took him at i oF,
saying to one another, that none could tell w

171

ther a stranger was honest or no, till he was
tried, and that his unwillingness to be examined,
was a sign that he had his private reasons for it.
That respect which is acquired and preserved by
an obliging, prudent behaviour, was withheld
from the Flanagans in their present place of abode,
as well as in the former one. They got the charac-
ter of being proud, scornful, and ready to take
offence where none was intended. Their children
had been always extremely mischievous, because
their parents constantly took their part, whether
they were right or wrong. If the boys boxed
their play-fellows, they were called “spirited chaps;”
if they killed a dog, or lamed a pig, they were
¢ arch rogues.” Accordingly, increasing in mis-
chief, as they increased in years, they became
proportionably disliked. The girls were encou-
raged to be affronted at rifles, and to be fond of
dress. They looked forward to Sally Crawford's
return from school with eager hope, that they
should be instructed in the most fashionable me-
thod of wearing their clothes. In this they were
disappointed; and when her exulting father
brought Sally home at the end of twelve months,
they were surprised, as much as her mother was
delighted to find her the same humble, dutiful girl
that she was when she left them. The chief diffe-
rence which the boarding-school had made in her
character or occupation, was, that she had read
enough of good books to give her a taste for more,
and that she always made her mother’s and her
own clothes. Kitty Crawford was an excellent
manager’; to this, and to her even temper, it was
owing that the property of the family was pre-
served, and that her husband was restrained
from drinking. She endeavoured in vain to pre-
vail on Jemmy to place their two boys out appren-
tices to-handicraflt trades. He would not hear of
It—his sons should be educated for clerks, and

 
174

carn their bread genteelly, Places for clerks were
not to be had, and the mother saw, with deep
regret, the danger that her sons were in of con-
tracting habits of idleness. ‘While all her exer-
tions were just sufficient to preserve them from
getting into debt, this worthy woman died. Sally
struggled against the grief which almost over-
whelmed her, and believed the best tribute of
affection she could pay to her mother’s memcry,
was to endeavour to follow her example... She
did sincerely endeavour to do so, but was not
experienced enough to be able to supply her place,
nor had sufficient influence with her father to pre-
vent him from seeking comfort for the loss which
he painfully felt, by resorting to the ale-house.
Tier home was now a mournful scene to Sally;
and though she strove to make it agreeable to her
father and brothers, her spirits were often unequal
to the task. Her brothers, seeing no prospect
of success for them, went into the army. ‘The
father plunged still deeper into excess, to drown
this additional gricf, and his daughter perceived
that ruin stared them in the face. Alas! what
language can describe her horror and distress,
when her unfortunate father was found smothered
in a stream, into which he had fallen, as he was
groping his way in the dark from the ale-house.
As poor Sally had never taken any airs upon her-
colf in her best days, she met sincere sympathy
from her neighbours, and they assisted her to set-
tle her unhappy father’s affairs. Just at this time,
Wm. Foran, a young man, lately out of his ap-
prenticeship, and looking out for a proper place
to begin business, came 10 this town, and liking
the situation, soon agreed to purchase the interest
in the late James Crawford’s house, and to
take the goods at a valuation. This enabled Sally
to pay all debts; and though nothing was Jett
for herself, it was a great comfort to her, that her

17%

fous father’s memory should be cleared from the
dizhonour of having others lose by him. Unbur<
dened “by debt; healthy, young, and blest wiilf
good principles, Sally locked to her own exer-
tions for support, and was in hopes, that as she
worked “well at her needle, and could make
gowns, that she might gain a livelihood by that
means. buat the neigbouring families had cach a
favourite working wontan, and it was in vain
that che solicited aud waited for such a sapply as
would bo suficient to maintain her. Some of Tier
friends advised her to go to Dablin, bat she
shrunk from the neglect, ‘contemnt, and wretched-
ness to which she might be exposed in a Tara
city where she was not known, and where ok
helpless state might expose her to deception.
Poor Sally would have preferred working in the
fields of her native place, where she was known
and beloved, to venturing among strangers. But
she “would much rather be a servant on 3 sober
family, than expose herself either to the hardships
of working out of doors, or to the scanty pittance she
might carn in a great town. Her cousin, Tom
Flanagan invited her to his house, in a manuer

Titi

+

. A Ri » we sn . 4 Yr i
that insured her a welcome; but though she was

grateful for this, she knew that she might suffer
Inconveniences from the Ligh spirit of the family
which was not of a nature to teach them trae
sympathy : and she preferred accepting the offer
of an old man and woman to live os.» them till
she could get a place, and in the mean time ex-
erted herself not to be burdensome. Her
young cousins were shocked at her choice of
so mean a home; and their father’s high spirit
was somewhat hurt at the preference, yet his goed
ih prated him to wish do her a service, and
offere r ] i

clined we Bond Shaan Dhichishe da.

s anner which could not
offend even him; for the independance of her
1:ind would not permit her to receive money

 
174

which she had not earned. Her acquaintance
thought it a great pity, that a girl who had been at
a boarding-school should become a common ser-
vant, and they urged her to propose herself as
tutoress to Mrs.Gray, the wife of a farmer lately
become rich, who was in want of one; but Sally
assured them, that she was totally unfit for such an
employment, and that her highest hope was to
be a children’s maid. A very good lady whom
Sally knew, wanted one, but before she could
offer herself, was provided. This, indeed, was a
disappointment. Her partial friends now advised
her to offer herself to Mrs. Forestall as a house-
keeper, but shesaid she was too inexperienced, and
preferred working with her hands. ~~
Though unable to procure the situation she
wished for, yet Sally was not discouraged. Her
father had long been too poor to keep a servant,
and she had been accustomed from her childhood
to put her hand to every kind of house business.
In short, she hired herself as kitchen maid in the
£rst respectable family she heard of. Her work
was hard, her wages low, but she thought the pro-
tection of a worthy family was a greater advantage
than high wages, or more easy employment. By
attending to directions, and doing every thing in
the right time, her work became less difficult to
her. She was always clean and whole, notwith-
standing her low station, and her fellow servants
observing how expert she was at making her own
clothes, often did her work for her, while she cut
out and made theirs. Her cousins, the Flana-
gan’s could ill brook the idea of being related to

a kitchen maid, and all disclaimed any acquaint-
ance with her, except the father, whose good na-
ture sometimes over-topped his high spirit.  Peg-
gy Flanagan, the eldest daughter of this family,
was pretty well taught at a day school, and had an
aptness in learning, which placed her foremost of

175

her school fellows, and obtained her so much ap-
plause, when she exhibited her talents at home,
that she thought herself qualified to apply for the
place of tuotress in Mrs. Gray’s family; which,
with secret satisfaction, she heard Sally Crawford
had declined proposing for. She wondered at
Sally’s want of spirit, but hinted, that a boarding
school could not do every thing, and that it was
throwing money away to strive to teach those who
had not a capacity for learning. For her part,
¢ Nothing venture, nothing win,” she would ap-
ply for the place of tutoress to Mrs. Gray’s chil-
dren herself. Fler parents commended her spi-
rit, she offered herself, underwent a cursory ex-
amination, and was accepted of. Her sister Nan-
cy hearing that Sally had also declined proposing
herself as housekeeper to Mrs. Forestall, cXpress-
ed, with no small degree of indignat!
prise that Sally should always hear first of good
places, and this wounded her spirit the nore, as
Mrs. Forestall was a distant relation of “he Flan
agan family, who had lately come to scitle in the
neighbourhood, and had taken notice of them in
a very friendly manner. Tom and his wife con-
gratulated themselves on the good spirit which
their children inherited from them, and which
their example and precept always supported, and
had the pleasure of sceing their Nancy exalted to
a place of trust in a genteel house. Sally Crawford,
satisfied with her own situation, was pleased to sce
her cousins so agreeably settled, for she’ believed
they must be capable of what they undertook, or
clse they would not have offered themselves for
those places, judging of others by herself. She
had a good mistress, and being soon promoted to
the station of house-maid, Sally came more under
her immediate eye. She considered the interest
of her servants, and believed the abilities of her
house-maid deserved to be employed to better par-

1
nay plv-

 
176

pose. She had a friend who wanted a young wo-
man to attend on and instruct very little children,
and on examining Sally, was convinced that she was
capable of this office, and recommended her not only
as a clever, diligent girl, but as one who would not
undertake any thing towhich shewasnot fully equal,
and who was not above doing whatever was required
of her. Mus. Jones was delighted to hear of such
a person ; she hired Sally, and prompted by bene-
volence, as well as a view to her children’s benefit,
she instructed her in many things of which she
had been ignorant. Thus, by her own good sense,
in making a proper choice of a mistress, instead of
chiefly regarding the work which she should have
to do, she was raised beyond her hopes, and she
was really concerned to see her cousin, Peggy
Flanagan return home disgraced, for having made
pretences to what she was not qualified for. Nan-
cy soon joined her sister at their father’s house,
still more vexed and disappointed, as she expected
much more from a relation than her services or at-
tention to directions deserved : and, by her foolish
stories and misrepresentations, prejudiced her fa-
ther and mother against a relation, who would
gladly have assisted them. Dick Flanagan, the
oldest son, about the time his sisters had displayed
so much spirit, resolved not to be behind hand
with them in shewing his taste,—fell in love with
Polly Morgan, who was a mild and pretty girl.
He loved her for the very perfections which were
not to be found in his own family : She was gen-
tle, good tempered, and industrious; but both
her father and herself were too well acquainted
with the contrary disposition of Dick to accept of
him. It must be confessed, that Polly felt some
regret that Dick had any faults, for be was a
sprightly, handsome young man, but old Martin
Morgan, her father, assured her that there was
nothing more necessary to the happiness of mar-

177

ried life, than an even, accommodating temper.
Dick was refused, and the Flanagans were all en-
raged, they could not imagine why any girl could
refuse to marry  owr Dick,” though he was not
yich ; they were all persuaded it was the old mi-
ser’s doings, and she had a poor spirit to deny
herself so much happiness to please such an old
follow. But their surprise was soon after increas-
ed, when they heard that Polly was married to a
labouring man, who would sooner pass by an af-
front than begin a quarrel; who would not treat
an old comrade to a glass, because he could not
afford it. As for fine clothes, no one ever saw them
on him. He kept his old father as well dressed
as himself, ¢ a pretty feliow,” remarked the Flan-
agans, “is he to go a courting ! and a poor spi=
ited ercature Polly is, to take him before our
Dick that was a tradesman born.”  Dick’s sisters
having cast an eye on William Foran and his shop,
made many excuses to throw themselves in his
way, and looked on each other frequently, with
not a very pleasant eye, when they met on these
occasions, They had no reason, however, for jeu-
Jousy of each other, and soon saw that they dress-
ed in vain, at this industrious, sober, young man,
who bad a very different object In view.

Soon after the Flanagans had experienced these
mortifications, there came to the inn a great fami-
ly, who were frequent passengers, and spirited
people. The inn-keeper was very particular in
his attention to them; they travelled in their own
carriages, with hired horses: The roads were slip-
pery with frost and snow, therefore, the shoes of
the horses: required to be cocked. The gentry
were in a great hurry; Tom Flanagan was sum-

moned to attend his forge, when he and his family

were engaged in a dissertation on the disappoint-

ments and vexations which they had met with; he

was sourcd by this conversation, came out in a bad
H 2

 
78

rumour, and resented being hurried. The Lostley
affronted him ; he had often affronted him before,
and Tom would not hurry himself to please him
the hostler scolded, and Tom declared he would
not put a cock on one of the shoes. Another
smith was employed, who rcjoiced to get such a
job. The gentleman was delayed, and threatened
to stop at another inn on his return. The inn-
keeper was so angry, that he refused to employ
Tom Flanagan any longer, consequently he had
little or no business, and had now reason to regret
losing his small customers, whase number made
them valuable. His wife was a neat sempstress,
but there was no fine work to be had, and she re-
fused to do any other, or else she might have had
+ the making of a great number of soldiers’ shirts,
Her daughters followed her example in refusing
to do such work as came in their way, and, on no
account, would the father and sons take a spade or
pitchfork in their hands, except for their own use,
and even this they considered as degrading.

As might be supposed, the little property of the
Flanagans was soon consumed, since they would
not do one kind of work, and could not obtain the
other. Tom heard of a bargain of iron, which
was to be sold in Dublin, and also hearing that
Martin Morgan was good natured though stiff, he
swallowed all past affronts, and asked him to lend
him money to purchase the iron. Martin would
not deny that he had a little money, but he had so
many uses for it, and had earned it so hardly, that
he was not willing to risk it; ¢ particularly,” ad-
ded Martin, “as you are what may be called a
rich man, all of you being well able to earn and
being very handy by all account.” Tom turned
away in a rage. He went home and called Mar-
tin Morgan an old Jew, declaring ‘that he now saw
the reason why he would not give his daughter to
Dick, and he would rather starve than handle a

179

farthing of such a miser’s filthy lucre; if he offered
it to hun, he would not take it from the narrow-
hearted fellow. As usual, he was joined by his fa-
mily, who were too proud to work themselves, but
not to live on the earnings of another. Tom ap-
plied to another man, who had made his fortune
by gaming and betting, and was not very particu-
lar whether he obtained it fairly or not; however,
he was wary enough to require a note in exchange
for his cash. The iron was bought, and proved a
great bargain, but the family lived upon the profits
as well as the principal, consequently there was no-
thing to pay the debt. Val. Daly, who was the
creditor, arrested Tom, and was conveying him to
prison, regardless of the cries, entreaties, and pro-
mises of his wife and daughters. Martin Morgan
happened to be going by, heard the loud cries and
lamentations, and thinking he might be of use,
stepped into the cabin. Of his own accord he of-
fered to go bail for Tom Flanagan, provided his
family would solemnly promise to do any work
which was offered to them from this time forward.
They gladly agreed, and moreover declared, they
would take his advice, and endeavour to follow his
example for the future. By doing so, they soon
cleared off the debt, but not without meeting with
many mortifications, which are never inflicted on
those who do not require more respect and submis-
sion than come to their share. Martin assured
them there was no use in flying from place to
place to avoid the affronts of the world, for they
would find, that those who paid for having work
done, expected it should be donein their own time,
and in their own way. As Tom was brought to
his senses by the severe discipline of adversity, he
acknowledged that his new friend was right, and
his influence, by degrees, wrought a reformation
in his family ; as a proof of which his daughters
shewed much composure, when the certainty of

 
180

ther having lost all chance of William Foran and
his shop, was manifested by his offering himself to
Sally Crawford. Sally had frequently been sent
to his shop to make purchases for her mistress,
her modest countenance, genteel deportment, and
the feelings which she strove to restrain, on enter.
ing the place so familiar to her sight, and so dear
to her remembrance, wakened sensations of pity,
which the knowledge of her character exalted into
sentiments of genuine affection, and he wished
that his circumstances might admit of his propos-
ing for her, before the treasure should be won b
a richer admirer, for he believed that Sally Craw-
ford’s humility and prudence, in undertaking
the lowest menial station to gain an honest main-
tenance, under the protection of a worthy family,
must affect others as it did himself. When he
found she was advanced to the situation in Mus,
Jones’s family, he rejoiced on her account that her
deserts were thus rewarded ; on his own, his fears
increased, and he exerted all his industry to make
his offer more worthy of her. When he was as-
sured of being able to maintain her comfortably,
he offered Sally his hand, with that diffidence
which attends true love, his offer was accepted
with affectionate gratitude, and she was thus rais-
ed to that rank in life from which her father’s ex-
travagance had thrown her. Sally had now no
anxiety but on account of her separation from her
brothers, and this was much relieved by frequent-
ly hearing from them, and by the good character
which they bore. “The reformed family of her
cousin, Tom Flanagan, continued to profit by the
good example of such neighbours, as Martin
Morgan and the Forans, and they were at
length all convince. that humility, independence,
and prudence, were the surest marks of a good
spirit.

PERSONS.

Mr. and Mrs. Williams,

Sophia, their daughter.

Mr. and Mrs. Fordyce, visitors.

Mark Owens, a Steward to Mr. Williams.

Nelly, Ais wife.

Billy, a clerk in Dublin. J

Larry, a cabinet maker.

Tom, turner. | Al Mark Owens’
Peggy, cook to My. Williams. | arian,
Betty, a lace maker.

Darby Noonan, ploughman to My. Williams.
Joanny, Ais wife.

Dan, their son, a ploughman.
Judy, a mentua maker.
Biddy, a wash woman.

John Minch,

Honor Minch, Ais wife.
Edward, 4is son.

Mary, is daughter.

Ellen, a foster child of Noonan’s.

Andrew Hilly Zer father, gone to America.
Larry Owens, in love with Ellen. :
Pegoy Owens, in love with Edward Minch,
Edward, in love with Ellen,

Darby’s children.

 
HONESTY IS THE BEST POLICY,

SCENE IL.

Mr. WiLLiams’s Parlour.

Present,— Mr. and Mrs. Williams, their daughter
Sophia, and Mr. and Mrs. Fordyce, visitors.

Mrs. Fordyce. Could you direct me, Mrs. Wil-
liams, where I could buy such a cabinet as that.
1 am going to Dublin next week, and I am such
a bad shopper, that I never happen to see things
so pretty or so cheap as other people.

Mrs. Williams. It gives me great pleasure to
inform you, Ma’am, that this cabinet was made by
one of our own tenants.

Mys. Fordyce. Are you serious? Pray come
here Mr. Fordyce, and look at this cabinet.

Myr. Fordyce. Very elegant indeed; but these

things cost money. I hope you don’t think of

purchasing one.

Mys. Fordyce. Do you know that it was made
by a tenant of Mr. Williams.

My. Fordyce. Impossible! I assure you that

183

Dublin could not produce a more beautiful piece
of workmanship in its kind. That man ought to
be encouraged, Mr. Williams.

Myr. Williams. He ought indeed, and shall be
encouraged, as well as all that ingenious family.
1 was very fortunate in meeting with them when
I settled in this country; for being accustomed to
the dexterity of Dublin tradesmen, and to get
every thing I wanted for money, it would have
incommoded me very much to live among an ig-
norant clumsy set of people in this remote situa-
tion. But the family of Owens have been every
thing to me. :

Myr. Fordyce. How fortunate! We thought
you were in a miserable situation so far from town,
and in the midst of such poor creatures. Pray,
Sir, are all this man’s family as clever as himself.

Myr. Williams. Indeed they are: Mark Owens,
the father, is extremely knowing about land, and
the time and season for laying in provisions for
the use of the house; in short, every thing that
I have consulted him on, and which you know I
am quite ignorant of. His eldest son is a clerk in
Dublin, to which situation he has attained by his
uncommon abilities, while at a little country school.

Sophia. Oh father ! Peggy says his master has
taken him into partnership. :

Mr. Williams. 1 am very glad of it. How
delightful to see talents and industry advancing
the poor as well as the rich !

Mr. Fordyce. Have you any more of this un-
commen family in your employ ?

Mz. Williams. Their daughter, Peggy, is our
cook. Let Mrs. Williams tell you her perfections.

Mrs. Walliams. If 1 had expected a complete
cook, I should have been satisfied with Peggy:
but expecting nothing, 1 was really astonished at

-her dexterity, which she had learned only from

her mother’s directions, who was 2 cook thirty

 
184

years ago. They have another daughter at home,
who was taught by a travelling beggar woman to
work lace. - She now manufactures such as you
would not be ashamed to wear in town. Their
son made this cabinet, though he was only intend-
ed for a carpenter, and their third son is an ex-
cellent turner. But I assure you we have more
clever people than the Owens on our ground.

Ms. Fordyce. You are not ill off indeed. We
can give your friends a pretty good account of
you. Do tell us about all your neighbours. You
cannot entertain us more agreeably.

Ms. Williams. Since 1 have nothing to say to
their disadvantage, I do it with the more pleasure.
Our principal labourer, Darby Noonan, is an ex-
cellent ploughman, and has also brought up a
very industrious and clever family, though they
are not so neat nor look so comfortable as the
Owens’s. Their only son promises to be as good
a ploughman as his father. His wife is a very
goodspinner,and plain worker. Their eldest daugh-
ter, Nelly, is my mantua maker, and I think this
gown fits me tolerably.

Mops. Fordyce. Extremely well indeed !

Ms. Williams. Biddy is our wash-woman, and
is unrivalled in the fields at all kinds of work.

Myr. Williams. Upon my word, she works as
well as any man Ihave, and does not appear fa-
tigued. And I assure you, that this good old cou-

le have brought up a child to woman’s estate,
who was left with them to nurse; the parents
went abroad, and they have sent no money nor
any account of themselves these seventeen years;
but the child has not suffered. She now lives
with us, and informs us, that she was as much
taken care of by them as their own children, and
was even more indulged.

Mrs. Williams. She is a beautiful girl, and ap-
pears very amiable. She has not such a clever
off hand mauner as the Owens’s or Noonans, but

185

for my part, I like her as well, and I think she is
very observant of directions. But we have dwelt
too long on this subject; you will excuse us; as
we have no other neighbours, and the manners of
the country people are new to us.

Myr. Fordyce. The talents and conditions of
our coundrymen in low situations, is a very inter=
esting topic to us, and still more so, when this is
so nearly connected with your comfort and happi-
ness, Who owns the neat little white washed
mill which we passed by ?

Mr. Williams. I forgot to tell you of our mil-
ler; he is also my tenant. He is rather a rough
spoken man, and his family are all more reserved
than the other two families, but I respect them
very much. Their son Edward is a very sensible
young man, as far as I have seen of him; but he is
ven more reserved than the rest of the family.
As for their daughter, I have seldom seen her.

SCENE IL

Mark Quwens’ house. All the family at work.

Futer Mi, Williams. Always at work, and al-
Nays neat !

Mark. We must be busy, Master, poor peo-
ple must be busy. Will your honour please to
take a seat? Betty, get a chair out of the room
for his honour.

Myr. Williams. Tl sit here if you please ; these
chairs will do very well.

Velly. We strive to keep them pretty clean.
Betty, give that chair a rub. :

Betty rubs her apron over a very clean chair.

My. Williams. It’s a pity to disturb Betty from
her nice work.

Mark. You're pleased to call my little girl’s
work nice. 1 hope in a little time her work will
be worth looking at, :

 
186

Mr. Williams.
ket for her manufacture in Dublin.
the boys doing? |

Mark. One of them is at the lathe, and the
other making a bit of a convenience for the lady
that you was pleased to show his work to. I
think he says it’s to hold the lady’s work, and
every thing belonging to it; and he is inventing
some private drawers and slides, out of his own head.

Myr. Williams. What a clever young man he is!

Mark. The boy has a pretty good head piece.

Myr. Williams. But my good woman, 1s it not
time for you to rest, after rearing such a clever fa-
mily ?

Nelly. Any thing that’s distressing I don’t do,
but I don’t love to be idle. I like to have my
poor old hands employed, and it takes up my
thoughts to be knitting this little pattern in the
glove.

Myr. Williams. [aside] What a charming family!

I must strive to get her a mar.
What are

Nelly. How do you like my little girl that’s
with you?

Myr. Williams. Very well indeed. I never hear
Mrs, Williams finding fault with her.

Nelly. Oh, Sir, that's her own goodness, for
my girl never saw any victuals dressed, let alone
rarities, till she saw them with you.

Scene changes to Mr. Williams’ parlour.

Mrs. Williams. My dear Sophia, you must not
be so dull. I don’t wonder at your fecling your-
self lonesome after your friends; but you must
consider that circumstances have made it necessa-
ry for us to live in this place, far away from our
old friends, and in a very different line of life,
from what we were accustomed to.

Sophia. Oh! mother, I am quite content with
eur present mode of living.

Mrs, Williams. And so am I, my dear. In-

187

deed, on the whole, I feel happier amongst these
simple poor people, than I did amidst the gran-
deur and wretchedness of the rich and poor in
Dublin. There we found it impossible to be ac-
quainted with the wants of such vast numbers of
people, and still less possible to relieve them.
Here we are acquainted with all our neighbours,
and though cur property is so much reduced, yet
we are able to assist them in many ways; and
does not the pleasure of doing good, amply com-
pensate for the loss of splendour and even of so-
ciety, such as we have been accustomed to?

Sophia. Dear mother, though I do feel sorry
for the friends who left us this morning, yet it is
not that which makes me dull.

Mrs. Williams. What then is it, my dear?

Sophia. 1 am greatly afraid we must part with
Ellen, and the thought of it makes me very dull.

Mis. Williams. Oh dear! 1 am very sorrow,
greatly disappointed indeed, for I liked her ex-
ceedingly, and she was so improved.

Sophia. About a month ago, I met her coming
hastily out of the larder. She looked frightened on
meeting me; and I perceived that she had some-
thing under her apron: I asked her what it was?
che trembled ; then shewed me a large piece of
meat, and burst out crying. I trembled as much
as she did, and was all day considering what I
should do. 1 liked her so well, and pitied her so
much, that I could not .bear the idea of parting
with her, in case you should know it. I came to
a conclusion, as I lay awake that night, to advise
her, as well as I knew how myself, in hopes of re-
claiming her; to watch her well for the future,
and if 1 found her out in any more theft, to inform
you.

Mrs. Williams. Did she make any excuses when
you spoke to her on the subject.

Sophia. Very little. She blamed herself, call-

 
188

ed herself an ungrateful mean creature; hinted a
little at the manner in which she was educated;
« but,” says she, I have no one to blame but
mvself. Here I heard and saw every thing that
was good and kind.” 1 do believe she was sin-
cere in what she said, and also in the promises she
made, never to do the like again.

Ms. Williams. I have heard that these people

think it no harm to steal victuals.

Sophia. 1 forgot to tell you, that Ellen said
che did not think it was so much harm to take
victuals, as clothes or money ; but after 1 spoke to
her, she said she was surc it was a sin to take any
thing that was not her own. 3
Have you discovered any thing

Mrs. Williams.
since ?

Sophia. Within this month I have lost a gown,
a piece of Brussels lace, and a guinea note, which
I had left in the glass draver, and which was ta-
ken the dav I left it there.

Mrs. Williams. Very cxtraordinary indeed!
Did you look for it carefully ? :

Sophie. 1 did, indeed.” Now, I can’t help
thinking it was Ellen took them.

Mrs. Williams. Certainly;

two of them.

way of knowing where you keep every thing. We

must part with her, my dear, though I am very |
sorry for her, as well as for those good people who |

nursed her. She must now be a burden to them
again, but we must make it up to them in some
way. Call for her, my dear. J !

Mys. Williams. [alone] What a grievous thing

for that beautiful young creature to turn out 3

and though she
might not think she would steal clothes or mo- |
ney, yet 1 would not trust them to any one who |
would steal food: you know there are only the |
I could not suspect any of tte

Owens’, as they are so much above the common |
sort, and, besides, you know Ellen is more in the |

[Exit Sophia. |

189

ihief! How mortifying, not to be able to confide
ii: our servants?

Inter Sophia and Ellen.

“Mrs. Williams. Sophia never told me of your
taking meat out of the larder, till she missed seve-
ral of her own clothes and some money.

Ellen. Oh! what shall IT do? How can I
defend myself after what I did that time. But
indeed, I never laid my hand on any thing since
that, to take it, nor never will while I live, after
all your goodness, and Miss Sophia’s tender advice.

Mrs. Williams, Don’t say any more about it,
Ellen. Yon cannot persuade me that you are in-
nocent, and you would only make the matter
worse by adding falsehood to it.

Ellen. (crying bitterly) Oh! good heavens !
Is there no way of my shewing my innocence ¢
Unhappy creature! what shall 1 do?

Mis. Williams. All I can do for you is not to
expose you, and to entreat you not to proceed any
farther in those bad ways. You know how I re-
garded you. I cannot all at once cease to regard

‘ou.

Ellen (sobbing.) That's what wrings my heart.
Oh mistress! oh Miss Sophia! what shall 1 say
or do? There is no use in what a poor girl like
me can say,--but, indeed—

Mrs. Williams. 1 request you will say no more.
It will he only adding sin to sin. That you may
not be exposed, I will endeavour to keep you till
your quarter is out, but you can expect no confi-
dence to be placed in you.

Ellen. After what Miss Sophia found me do-
ing, I cannot blame any one but myself.

Scene changes to Servants’ room.

Ellen. ( alone, sobbing ) Unfortunate girl that I
am, to think that I should lose my character, and

 
190

who have I to befriend me ? No father or mother, .

sister or brother! How can I be a burden to my
nurse? and yet what can I do without a charac-
ter ? and ob, if Edward should hear of it, he must
think that such good people would not part with

me for nothing : what can I tell him: and he that

is so strict, and gave me such books!

Inter Peggy.

Peggy. Ah then, Ellen, what ails you, and

what are you breaking your heart for 2
Ellen. Oh, Peggy honey, I am going to leave
you, and I am in great trouble.

Peggy. Sure you are notin earnest: why then |
‘What are you going"

T'd be very sorry for you.
for ?

Filen. 1 don’t know how to tell it; itis such
a scandal to me.

Peggy. You know I would not tell mortal.

Ellen. I'm sure you would not hurt a poor
desolate creaturc’s character; one that has no
other dependance. Oh my!

Peggy.
you, if you tell me.

Ellen.

for the world.

Peggy. To be sure you would not; and why |

did she accuse you of it?
Ellen. Oh, that’s the thing: I have no one to
blame but myself;

days I went home, poor nurse wondered, I never
brought her any thing, where so much Sol
was stirring, and so much was given away; sO

took a bit of meat out of the larder, and I was }

go frightened at doing the like, and thought my-
self so ungrateful, that I was all of a tremble
when I met Miss Sophia, So she found me out,

Don’t be fretting—may be I could serve

I am accused of stealing Miss Sophia's §
clothes and money. Sure I would not do the like

and now since I told you so
much, Imay as well tell you, that different Sun-

191

and no wonder she should mistrust me for taking
her clothes and her money. My heart aches at
the thoughts of it all, and I that don’t know where
to go, without being a burden to my poor nurse.
I would not ask for a discharge, for I could not
expect a good one. Indeed now, Peggy, I am
distracted between one thing and another, and
there is no way I could persuade her I am inno-
cent.

Peggy. No, indeed, that you can’t expect;
but may be Miss Sophia only mislaid her little
things.

Lilen. That's my only hope.

Scene changes to John Minche’s mill,
Ldward very busy serving customers. Peggy comes
in for a stone of flour.

Edward. TI serve you directly, Peggy; but

these people have been waiting this long time.
Peggy. (blushing.) I'm notin any hurry, Ed-
ward.
Customer. J
Don’t be uneasy, young woman; we'll soon be out
of your way.
Edward. You are very fond of a joke, Paddy.

I see there’s something between you.

~ Customer. 1 was once young myself: I remem-
ber when I liked to be talking to a young woman
by herself. [Exit Customer.
Ldward. Have you any strange-news at your
house, Peggy?
Peggy. Very strange, indeed !
about poor Ellen.
Edwcrd. What work? what's the matter?
Does any thing ail her?
Peggy. Worse than that: what signifies a
body’s health compared to a body’s character?
Edward. Character! character! Ellen’s cha-
racter— I thought—what about her character ?

Strange work

 
PE rn

nr ape ie Ee

2
i thing of
Peooy. 1 would not wish to say any
any bi A poor fatherless creature like her has

10 other dependance,
rr But you must tell me, or I'll ask her-

self.

Pegey. Oh, don’t ask herself, for the world,
nor say a word to any one about it, black or
white. : :

Edward. May be it is not true. [aside] Obmy
lovely Ellen! wa ; :

Podur. Time will tell whether I'm belylag he
or not. I suppose my mistress would not send her
away for nothing. : :

Pward. I believe not, indeed, but tell me
how it was. ii ;

Pegey. Then the whole of it is, that Miss So-
phia Found her stealing meat out of the larder,
and after that she was found out stealing clothes
and money: she could not deny it, and she 1s to
go directly.

8 Edward. Who can we depend on?

Peggy. Sure it is not bran you are giving me:
I asked you for flour. 1

Edward. Yes, 1 believe it was flour—[aside] I
don’t know what I'm doing.

z ’t mention what I told you.

Peggy. You won't men i

Edward alone. 1 hope herself won’t mention i
Oh my lovely Ellen! I know the world 1s 2
but I thought I might depend upon that sere es
and modest manner. ~~ I'll never do any good,

hold up my head again. |
Enter Mary Minch.
Come to dinner, Edward. Be
Edward. Tl not eat any to-day, Mary.
Mary. What ails you ? Ee
Edwerd. Nothing. Tell them Tm busy.

Sgr * 3 3 Thy Cail vO.
Mary. Butyouarenotbusy: tell mewhatailsyou. |

193

Lidward. I'm fretting about Ellen.

Mary. Oh, that Ellen goes between you and
your rest. You need not fret then, for I know
she likes you very well, and gave Larry Owens
his answer for good and all.

Edward. 1 wish she was married to Larry this
present minute.

Mary. Are you mad? I don’t know what to
make of you at all. I thought you’d be easy now
entirely.

Lidward. I must ease my mind to you, Mary,
because I know you'll never repeat any thing to
any one’s disadvantage. Poor Ellen has been
found out in stealing both food, and money, and
clothes, belonging to the young ladies.

Mary. I can’t believe it. The world is very
envious. Who told you?

Edward. Pegoy has just been telling me all
about it, and poor Ellen has got warning.

Mery. Still I can’t believe it: and as for Peg-
gvs Iknow she has a design on you this many a
day. Who knows but she wants to turn you
against Ellen. |

Lidward. 1 can’t think she’d be so wicked ; and
besides you know there must be something in it,
when Ellen is going away.

Mary. Sure enough: and between you and
me, I don’t think that Ellen always saw what wa
quite honest at Noonan’s.

Edward. It was often a trouble to me, that slie
was brought up by the like of them. I’m sure
it is they that put it into the creature’s head to
do the like: but, let who will put it into her head,
it is not very easy to get it out when once it got in.
Like the dogs that once have tasted blood, they
are fond of 1t ever after, and I’m afraid it will be
so with my poor Ellen, and for that reason, I'll
strive never to think more of her. Ah Mary!

I

gro

Fm

 
194

that won't be an easy matter. She's the begin-
ning and ending of all my thoughts for i00Ay a
year, aye, since we were quite smal. And when
1 saw what sort she was, and what sort of people
she lived with, I thought a wild creature like her,
might be led to do wrong; and without seeming
todo it on purpose, I often talked to herof the good
of honesty, and the sin of roguery, besides all
the trouble it brings us into: and you know I lent
her books all to the same purpose, fearing that
she might be corrupted by those that she liked so
well, and was so well liked by them. io
Mary. No ene could help liking her. I wish
che was away from the Noonans, and may be
she might leave off any bad fashions. :
Edward. 1 wish she was for her own sake :
but I never could think of marrying the prettiest
irl that ever lived, if she had once been guilty

of robbery. Thanks to our parents, under the
o

blessing of Providence, we have been brought

ap with different notions from that. ir

Mary. Imustrun in—1 forgot myself. [Lx :

Edward alone. Oh my heart I It that gir
does not go to service far from this, I'll quit he
country. God give me patience to see how it wii
end. 1 wish I could forget the past, smce I Bays
nothing to hope for. Oh, what happy hours
have passed with her!

Scene changes to Mr. Williams's Farm Yard.
Mark Owens walking about with keys in his hand.
Enter Mr. Williams.
So Mark ! always taking care ! :
think of the produce of the corn? :
Mark. Middling enough, please. your bane
The crop looked well, and the sheaves looked wells
bat the produce is not in it for all that.

‘What do you

My. Williams. 1 need not tell you, that I know
very little about country business.

Mark. How should your honour: you never
were brought up to the like. The quality’s ser-
vants that were here t'other day, told us how
mighty grand entirely you lived inf Dublin, and
sometimes in London, till some villain of a banker
cheated you, and how you never knew what went
in or what went out of your house, only as your
steward and house-keeper managed for you. My-
self wonders how you can content yourself here
in this rough place, and the mistress too, and
above all, Miss Sophia, that ought to be taking
her diversion. But she seems quite happy, teach-
ing them poor children, and shewing my Peggy
(poor thing!) and the other little girl, how to read
and write.

My. Williams. She does indeed appear to have
great pleasure in those things, but Ellen has dis-
appointed us very much. - I would net mention it,
but that I wish to know what sort of people these
Noonans are, or whether they could encourage
her in what was wrong.

Mark. Not at all, master. They are very ho-
nest people. Wc were neighbour’s children, and
I know them since I was any size atall. Butl
can’t say that 1 knew much about Ellen. I know

I wondered at her to refuse to marry my Larry;
and thinks 1 at the same time, I wish she-ma
have no bad way of getting bread, when she won’t
take a good industrious boy, though I say it.

Myr. Williams. As your care of my affairs is
of important service to me, I propose paying you
five pounds a year more than I agreed with you for.

Marl. 1 could not think of being paid so high :
your honour knows I can’t work as well as a strong
young man, and why should I expect so high wages.

Mr. Williams. 1 value your care and know-
led. e much more than labour. Buz, Owens, I
can’t help thinking of that corn which I sent to

 
196

be ground, and you know you remarked, there
was a deficiency.

Mark. 1 know, master. I know what you
“mean. Such things are very disagreeable; but
we can’t expect over and above honesty In the
. country no more than in towns. All we have for
it, master, is to be content: and any how 1t 1s a
common remark, that millers are not any honest-
er than they should be all the world over.

* Mr. Williams. Oh Mark, this won’t do, honesty
is honesty every where and in every employment.

Mark.” It is, master; but we don’t think much
of millers taking a trifle more toll than comes to
~ their share. ;
Myr. Williams. And my timber. Ihope there is
no license in the country for stealing timber. Did
you remark that there are several boards gone?

“Mark. I did notice the pile looking small,
but I could not believe my eyes: indeed 1 was laid
out to mention it to you, but it slipped my memo-
ev. I would not wish to have my name mentioned,
but I noticed young Minch walking out very late,
different and different. times; ‘ but I said nothing,
only wished he might be out upon any good. But
for my share, I always liked people to sleep at
night, barring they had some care on them. Ma-
ny an uneasy hour I have, thinking how your ho-
sour might be wronged. If I never was to get
a farthing by it, I'd be proud to take care of you,
“and do for you day and night. :

Wr. Williams. I'm sure of it. 'T must put a
stop to this kind of work, for it’s a pity such a good
neighbourhood should be spoiled by one bad family.

Mark. Believe me, master, there is no great
use in inquiring or looking into the matter much:
all’sin it, we must be watching and minding as

well as we can; for these people are very “cute, and

the world is envious—very envious, please your
honour, and it's dangerous for people to have

QNEN1ICs.

 

197

Hy. Williams. Never fear, my honest fellow

Scene changes to Mark Owens’s house—all the family

collected together, and the miller’s family, ‘who
are come to take tea with them.

Mari, You're all kindly welcome to my little
place: Nelly was not easy till we'd have you to
take a cap of tea with us,

Rose Minch. “We thank you kindly, ncigh-
bour. -

Juin. It does not answer people of our sort to
be visiting, but as it was a holiday, I did not care
to be always refusing you.

Betty Owens. Oh Mr. Minch, you were al-
ways mighty stiff. I suppose that was the old-
fashioned way.

John. Far from it. It was then we were socia-
ble, and free, and easy, and it was not Sir nor

Mr. but John, or Tom; or Molly, or Dolly, or.

whatever other name we were christened. .

Betty. To be sure; poor people expect no-
thing else. I'wonder we don’t hear from my bro-
ther William.

John. - 1 thought you heard from him to-day.

I heard there was a letter in the post from Billy
to you. .

Betty. Come here, Nell Dunn. Run off di-

rectly to the post-office, and inquire for a letter
from my brother William.

John. Is it any offence to ask you, who thé
letter is to be directed to?

Betty. To be sure: the little girl will know -

that. Mr. Edward, did you hear that my brother
William is partner to Mr. Jackson. Eh, Mr.
Edward Minch ?

Edward. Isitme you are talking to, Betty? I
did not hear you at first.

Betty. Did you hear that Mr. Jackson had
taken my brother William into partnership ?

A

di

 
198

Edward. 1 don’t recollect hearing it. I am
glad how well Billy is ‘doing. :

Pegoy (whispers to Betty.) Do you mind how
dull he is?

Betty. Yes, indeed, very dull. Oh never
mind ; we'll soon have him pleasant enough with
a bit of a dance.

John. How mighty dressy the young people
are grown. Our Mary looks well enough at home,
but she is very plain by your daughters, Mark.

Mark. It is not 1 that dress them: their bro-
ther sends them these fine things from town; but
1 hope they have no pride in them.

John. ‘The less the better.

Mark. What ails you, Edward ? You used
to be the life of a party of young people. Come,
Larry, and all of you—we must have a song, or
« dance, or something to put life in you—you all
seem afraid to speak to one another.

Beity. Mr. Edward, will you sing, or would
you rather have a dance?

Edward. Whatever you please.

Peooy. We please for you to sing a song.

Edward. Tl try—Oh, no, I can’t sing: I
must bid you good night. [ Exit.
Betty. Mr. Edward is very dull.

All.” Very dull! What can ail him ?

John. I don’t see much the matter with the
boy. I suppose he is gone home to see how things
look.

Peogy. It is time for me to be going too—I
was bid not to stay out long. Will you come
home with me, Larry? [ Exit.

Enter Nell Dunn with a letier, directed to Mark:
Owens, Kilminagh, for Belty Owens.

Betty reads. Betty Owens! Betty Owens!
that’s very odd—it used to be Miss Eliza Owens,

199

but I suppose he was in a hurry, he has so much
business to do now he is a partner.

John. Oh never heed the superscription.
What signifies the outside of a thing ? it’s the
inside that I'd always be aiming at.

Betty. 1 must not be so very ungenteel as to
open the letter.

John. Why? what would you do with it but
open it?

Betty. 1 mean before company.

John. That's the queer gentility. I believe all

.the company, if it is company you call the neigh-

bours, would be proud how well he was. I'm
sorry Ned went out.

Nelly. What makes you look so pale, Betty ?

Mark. Betty, what ails you?

Rose. She's fainting !

John. Neighbour Mark, see what's in the let-
ter ; may be there’s bad news from the poor boy.

Mark reads. Oh my unfortunate Billy !

Nelly. Tor goodness sake, tell me what ails my
child ?

John. Won't you tell us what's the matter ?

Mark. Let every one mind their own business.

John. Come, Rose, and Mary—we had bet-
ter be going; our poor neighbours are in trouble,
and may be they'd like to be left to themselves. A
good night to you, neighbours : and don’t be
fretting too much for poverty or sickness—such
trouble is light trouble, compared to bad behaviour.

Scene, Mr. Williams’ parlour.
Mr. and Mrs. Williams.

Mr. Williams. I don’t know what to think of
Owens’s hints. :

Mrs. Williams. 1 can’t say that I feel disposed
to believe any thing to the miller’s disadvantage.
Though I admire the ingenuity of the Owens’s

 
200

and Noonans, yet I like the countenances of ‘the
Minches better. The old man is a most venerable
fine looking figure, and they all appear a modest
industrious family. At any rate, I do not think
we are long enough acquainted with Owens to de-
pend entirely npon his word, without making any
inquiries.

Mr. Williams. But you know we can’t endan-
ger Owen’s safety, by any close inquiries.

Mrs. Williams. You can send for Minch, and
ask him what are the customs of millers, and
make any inquiries which do not relate to Owens.

Mr. Williams. Very well. 1 will not send for
him. (Ringsthe bell.)

Enter Ellen.

Myr. Williams. Go down to the mill, and tell
John Minch I would be glad to speak to him.
Ellen. Yes, sir. [aside] Oh, what shall I do?

[Exit.

Mys, Williams. 1 can’t divest myself of my
regard for that poor girl. And I am persuaded
that some bad influence must have been used
with her, before she was brought to such a sad
pitch.

Mr. Williams. Poor child! I wish we could
be of any service to her. I would by no means
recommend her as an honest servant, nor would
it be safe for any one to admit her into their house,
because the arts of a confirmed thief would sect
all care at defiance.

Enter John Minch.

John. What would you please to want with
me, sir?

Myr. Williams. 1 am not quite satisfied about
that corn that was ground for me at your mill
lately.

Join. 1 hope to have it in my power to satisfy

 

 

20T

vou, sir, as it is my duty; my son is a pretty good
accountant, and is active about the business ; if you
would please to call Mark Owens and him together,
may be they would make you sensible how the
matter stands.

Mr. Williams. 1 dare say they could: for the
satisfaction of all parties we must get it cleared
up.
Jokn. By all means. As you are a stranger,
and unacquainted with us all, we must only shew -
you our characters by cur actions; and in time, I
hope you will know, which of us is to be depended
on.

My. Williams. 1 am afraid I shall become sus-
picious. You must know that I have lost several
very choice boards within these few weeks.

John. 1 was several times thinking of com-
ing over to ask you if you. missed €’er a bit
of timber; for I noticed tables and chairs
scliing, where they used to have few enough
for their own use. I don’t care to tell the
name of the people, for I don’t wish to make ene-
nies tor myself, nor to turn you against a poor
creature, that is hard set to live. All that can be
done, is to be more careful in future: and for all
that I was often in trouble, and mentioned it to
my wife too, that a strange gentleman, not used
to minding the like, should lie open to-be wronged.

Myr, Williams. 1 won't ask you any questions,
but procure a warrant, and search every house
impartially. ;

John. That is a very good way, and if you
please, I'll not stir out of this house, till you
search my place, that you may be sure there was.
nothing stirred by my directions.

Mr. Williams. Very well, John—you’ll stay
with Murs. Williams, [Laut.

Ms, Williams, Although Mr, Williams. is igne-
1 9

~~

 
202

rant of country business, yet there is no one more
knowing and active about getting to the bottom of
~ hing o this kind. ?

John. e is very right. I am sorr ;
of your house maid being found out in Pili

Mrs. Williams. And pray, John how did S
Giver he poor girl’s misfortune ? you

ohn. elieve it was y
told it at our house. Fateh Puy in

Mys. Williams. That was treacherous of Peg-
gy, for she told me that Ellen had confessed ever
thing to her, but that she would not expose re
on any account.

John. Ah! the poor young creature! She must
expect to be exposed when she did the like of
that; but it was a dirty mean turn of Peggy to
repeat the like, when she made her confession to
her, more especially at our place, when she knew
our boy doated on her. Unhappy lad, to have
the luck to fix his mind on the like of Bet,

Mrs. Williams. I don’t wonder at his taste, for
we must only judge of things and people by their
looks till we have some experience of them.

John. Very true, ma’am ; and it is no wonder
for him to be mistaken, when I, who have seen
so many fair outsides, with a hollow core, should
think there was not the like of Ellen in the coun-
ty; and though she has nothing but her little
clothes in the world, both he and Tr were quite sa-
Ghee Yih her: om i she was ever so handsome
and rich too, yet ha y
Sonoma : Jal she not honesty, I would not

Mis. Williams. It will be a sore grief to your
som.
John. at it wi |
Wo i it will, and to me too, for there
oy not be an honester man than her father, for
w wich reason I never discouraged Ned from court-
aa ’
ing her. I don’t know when I heard any thing
gave me § nh tr r 3
g me so much trouble, for her own sake, as

well as for Ned's; for he's a steady lad, and
could not change his mind of a sudden. 1 wish
the poor girl may turn out well.

Scene changes 10 Noon@i’s wretched cabin.

‘he Pig's bed at onc side of the fire—the old cou-
ples’ bed at the other side—the roof very bad—
the holes of the floor full of waler—a table by
the firey covered wilh tea-things, and buttered
toast—all the family sitting round it.

Darby. 1 wonder could we get another Dit of
a stick in that yard there above?

Dan. If we could not get it in the yard, I
know where we can get plenty. No where but
ut of the house where it is kept.

Darby. Sure you would not venturc to take 1t
out of the house.

Dan. There is no venturing in it as long as
Mark has the care of jit—myself has the key as
often as Mark has it.

Darby. I'm sure his honour will miss it.

Dan. Not he. Why, father, he knows no more
{han a child what he has, nor what he wants either.
‘What could he ever want with all that kind of
timber. :

Darby. Not one of me knows—why should I7

Dan. It's my belief then, that every one that
had any thing to cell when he was In Dublin,
came and offered it to him, and told him he'd want
it in the country. So the innocent man bought
them all. Now since he Joes not want this timber,
we may as well he using it by degrees, and it will go
so easy, that he'll never miss it. Ti

Joanny. 1's a great while sinee 1 saw my poor
child. 1 hope shes ‘well, the poor thing!

Dan. What a bother you make about your
poor child : what would ail her? If she was any
good at all, she’d have us all dressed mee betore

i

 
204

this time, Not a bit of them quality would ever
miss what she’d bring home to us.

Joanny. It is not but she thinks of us, and
would be glad how well we'd be; but she’s so mild,
that she'd be afraid of her life to touch any thing,
"lis I have a right to know her good nature,
Sure she never laid out a guinea on herself since
she went to service, but saving and saving till she
bought me this gown and handkerchief, My
blessings on her beautifil face, and her genteel
limbs,

Dan. One would think it was your baby you
were dandling, She never was cute enough to
please ine.

Darby. Why then 1 love every bone in her
skin. I wish we had another hundred of the
flour—It makes mighty sweet bread. Do you
like it, Judy ?

Judy. That Ido well; I'm sare Biddy is long
enough up to be hungry. What ails you, Biddy?

Biddy. I'm afraid we'll be found out, and it’s
what I do be thinking of early and late, that ho-
nesty is the best policy.

Dan. Don’t be bothering us with your cants.
Leok over your head at the roof, and under your
feet at the floor, and think what we would do to live
this way through the wiater, barring we got timber,
and where’s the money to get it—Eh ?

Biddy. TH say nothing—there’s no use in what
the like of me could say, but I'll work all I can.

Lnter Ellen.—Oh my! you are very late at break-
fast—I'm sure it can’t be less than one o’clock.

Dan.. People that are up late must sleep late,
and breakfast late; but the never a nmatier what
time one eats, only when one’s hungry, and sleep
when you're sleepy. What makes your pretty
eyes sored ? are you sorry you put off poor
Larry?

Joanny. Never you mind what makes her eyes

 

205

red—never heed him, my jewel !' you'll tell myself
what troubles you.

Dan. Aye, that she will, when I'm gone. I'll
go now to please you and your Jewel. L&xit Dan.
° Ellen. Did you hear I was going to leave Mr.
Williams? ;

Joanny. Is it possible ?

Lllen. 1 just run down to tell you, and to bid
you be locking out for a place for me. :
" Joanny. Here's a place for you, my darling
child, where you are as welcome as the flowers in
May, but it is not fit for you now, that are used
to the fine dry house.

Ellen. Oh, any where is good enough for me,
but I would not be a burden to you.

Joanny. That's what you never were.

Darby. No, indeed, you were not. I must go
cut to the plough. [Exit Darby.

Joanny. But what is the reason of it, my
jewel,

Inter My. Williams with a constable.

Myr. Williams. So you are here, Ellen— (aside)
that’s not a good sign. We are searching all the
houses for timber, and some other articles that
are astray; you will not take offence, ma’am, at my
examining this house. ‘

Joanny. Why should I, sir? Very proper.
[aside.] Oh, we are kilt ! 33 28

My. Williams. Come,sir, here is a little room.

Constable. Please your honour, here’s timber
in plenty, and corn, and flour, thrust under the
bed.

Mr. Williams. And what are those on the
tester ?

Constable. Apples, please your honour. :

Mr. Williams. Yes; they are a particular kind,
which are not to be found in this country, except
in my garden.

 
206

yy ?
Joanny. (rocking Juss ) OF I what will I do?
: str KILL ¢
Ve are all destroyed and ki
: Mr. Williams. This 1s wl work !—a sad place
for you to be reared, Ellen! :
ori, Oh, it’s she that is as innocent as a
new-born child.
My. Williams. Come, come, no more 1
«weet words : and these tables and chairs, lle
: ?
who made them?
Lllen. 1 believe it was the Owens'’s. ; Yau
My. Williams. Don’t tell me a lie, child, on
know one of those lads is a cabinet-maker, an
the other a turner. I
FLllen. But they are handy at any thing, :
My. Williams. I'm afraid so—where did you
4 - : ? ’
et all the timber and flour
” Joanny. Indeed I don’t know, please your
honour, no more I don’t.

Enter Darby

ig?

‘What's all this :

My. Williams. 1 have found out ok your fon

A i , y € 28
cealments—my timber, my flour, and my app
Ve our thoughts on plausible
You need not spend your th gh

or Vv -e all discovered.

excuses, for you are all

Darby. Then it's like I may as ve id
whisht—but what signifies what I took, 2 c me
parison with some, and them that are well to
£00. ,

Mr. Williams. What do you mean! es,

Darby. [mean them that led me into this mi

or une. ' 1 : ;

i vy Williams. If you make any v aluable dis

4 . . il oll
covery, you may €.¢ape prosecution: soit a

Joanny. Oh Darby, honey, tell the gen
all you know. Ba

Torry Well then, I can tell you, that C gone
is the worst enemy you have, ond exposes you :

| > em 100; auc

things, and sells them, and uses the 3

 

207

more than that, my son, Dan, is just come from
Dublin, and brought queer news of his son, Billy.
Your honour might take notice, they all looked
very black these couple of days.

Mr. Williams. 1 see now what became of
my corn, and the flour, that came home deficient
from the mill.

Darby [lifting up kis hand] Oh, master, though
I'm down myself, yet I would lay my life this pre-
sent minute that an honester man than the miller
does not breathe, and his father was so before him,
and his children after him.

Myr. Williams. I am very glad to hear it. I
shall now go, and make further examinations, and
you must remain quietlv in your house, lest
Owens might make preparations for my reception.

Darby. Oh master, sure you won't bring me
into trouble about it; you might as well hang me
at once.

Mr. Williams. Not if I can avoid it. [Lxit,
Scene changes to Mr. Williams's pailour.
Mis. Williams and the Miller sitting at the fire.
Linter Mr. Williams.

‘We have had sad work since.

Mrs. Williams.
lost, I hope?

Mr. Williams. No, my dear—no lives are lost,
but I have lost that confidence in my fellow-crea-
tures, which I vainly hoped would make up to me
for the loss of my fortune, and my former friends.

Mrs. Williams. Can you confide in no one ? if
so, we should be as well off, if not better, amongst
the Indians.

Mr. Williams. We can, indeed, my dear, trust
our good friend here. Poor wretched Noonan,

in all his disgrace, assured me of Minche's hoo
nesty,

How so, my dear—no lives are

 
208

Johns Poor fellow! he was once counted am
honest man; but temptations, and may be, bad
company, and poverty came across him.

Mis. Williams. But what happened, my dear—
Do tell me all about it ?

My. Williams. We searched a number of ca-
bins, without any effect, except to make me pity
the poverty of the people, by discovering how -
much they wanted, till we came to Noonan’s. Hav-
ing made a proper apology, as we did every where
else, for intruding, we entered the bed-room,
which we found crammed with potatoes, corn,
oat meal, flour, and apples. I knew the apples
to be mine; and it was easy to discover by the
manner the rest were hidden, and by the oid wo-
man’s fright, that all the provisions were stolen.

John. Poor creatures !

My. Williams. 1 found Ellen there. [I asked
her who made the chairs and tables. The artless
creature who was all trembling and pale, answer-
ed that the Owens’s made them. The old man
them came in. He did not know but his wife had
confessed all to me, so he told me ail I could wish.

We then proceeded towards Owens’s: We ict
Larry on the road. Iasked him whether it was
he made these nice chairs which 1 saw at Noonan’s.
Yes, he said, he had made them, and if my ho-
nour wanted the like, he could not be above mak-
ing me some. I.then proceeded to Owens’s house,
where I found Tom. On asking him, had he
made any chairs for Noonan, he denied ever
making one of them: ¢ Then, I suppose, your
brother made them all.” ¢ Not he indeed,” ve-
plied Tom, ¢ neither of us ever handled one of
his chairs, nor ever did a hand’s turn for Darby

Noonan, since we were born. I did not know he

had the like, till yesterday about tiils time; I was

walking past with some bowls to a neighbour, and

I noticed some chairs zt Darby’s door : 1 said no-
thing, as I thought it did not concern me.”

 

209

Mrs. Williams. ~ I wonder at your patience.
yr Yellin, Indeed I could hardly stand
: g speech, but I knew there was nothing to
begs by ason, and that by keeping my tem-
er Pam with it, I might put a stop to

John. You were quite ri
resolute, but not Ee trilon and sive

Mr. Williams. 1 have reason to think that Tom
and os father had heard of the bustle before I
saw : lem. I found Mark looking as careful as
Wi In my haggard, with the keys on his fingers
ny a shrug in his shoulders. % Mark,” says 1,
4 % very sorry to find that your sons have been

Orsing up my timber into chairs and tables for
Naomi * % My sons |” said Mark, * that would
bo ie sorrowful story for their poor father.”
. 1€S, your sons, you need not invent any sto
ries, for I know it all.” = « J did,” says he a
= hogs ons chairs and tables, but I never
Ji i hey Dae for, or what timber they
Bad. > y mostly kept in their own little worl

op, and I'm sure you know that I spent but lit-
tle time at home, Oh the world is very envious
very envious, entirely.” Finding I could get no
food of Mark, as his art was equal to all the rest
dotiond ie Pegay's room, as it struck me that
LE 50) dome been the thief, who stole So-

John. 1 pray that she may, for I always liked

poor Ellen, well, Sir. I beg your tor

Mr. Williams. Without causing any disturb

ance in the house, we examined Pegoy’s Bos, wd
found Sophia’s gown, the piece of lace, and sen
: al ; cambric handkerchiefs with your name on

Mis. Williams. But the guinea note.

My, Williams. 1 almost despaired of findine

that, but the experienced constable suffered no

 
210

thrash bag or snuff box to escape him, till he found
it wrapped up in several folds of calico, which was
squeezed into a little tin box that was in an old poc-
ket, «t the bottom of the box. Sophia was along
‘with us, and recollected the number and every par-
ticular about the note. Indeed, it occurred to
Sophia, that Peggy might have been the thief ever
since she heard of her treacherous conduct in re-
vealing poor Lllen’s secret. am
Mrs. Williams. 1id you see Peggy since!
Mr. Williams. 1 did indeed; but I will not
repeat the lies and oaths which she uttered.
Mops. Williams. What a day you have had! I
would not wish indeed that you should relate more
of a business that has given you so much pain.
I will undertake to dispatch Peggy myself. It i,
however, a great consolation to find the genus
Ellen as honest as she is amiable, and the fou
stain removed from heron the persons really guilty.

Scene changes to John Minche's neat little parlour.
John, his wife and son.

Rose. Well, Edward, I think Ellen was inno-

nt after all.
a Yes, mother ; but for all that, 1 don’t
know what to think of speaking to her again.

John. 1 would not be glad that you'd be any
more than friendly to her, till you sce how every
thing will settle after this hurry. You know, for
certain, that Miss Williams found her taking
meat one day; and we don’t know bat so tracta-
ble a girl might be coaxed to do the same again,
for people she is so fond of. Now, though she is
the better for being tractable to a good person,
yet I would not wish you to be tied to her, while
che has so much to say to the Noonans. It must
have been they that ‘influenced her to take the
ment, for which reason I would be sorry to have

 

211

you connected with ene that has so much to de
with them.

Lidward. (sighing) TI do all I can to put her
out of my head, for she has no one else to di-
rect her but them, and she is so good natured,
that I know she’ll always be grateful to them. At
any rate, I'm very glad she can’t be accused of
taking either the money or the clothes.

Enter Mary. I'm just after sceing Peggy
Owens, and though I never liked her, I could not
but pity her, she was in such trouble, and hid her
face when I met her at first, till I bid her the time
of the day. She was just coming out of Mr. Wil-
liams’ gate, for good and all. She, that was al-
most like a house-keeper, to be turned away in
disgrace! Indeed, I'm not the better for secing
the poor thing.

Rose. We ought to be all very thankful that
it did not come to us to fall into such sin and dis-
grace.

Mary. Indeed, mother, that’s what I was
thinking.

John. It becomes us to pray not to be led into
temptation, and, as you say, to be thankful that we
have lived with credit so far ; and, though we often
were hard enough put to it, yet, when we lay
down at night, we could sleep with an easy mind,
and when we sat down to our bit of victuals, we
could not accuse ourselves of wronging any one.

Enter a well dressed looking old man.

I beg your pardon, Mr. Minch, for introducing
myself here.

John. No offence, Sir, will you be pleased to
take an air of the fire ? Mary, hand a chair for
the gentleman.

Stranger. 1 made bold to come in, to inquire
if you knew such a man as Darby Noonan.

 
212
Join. We know him very well, he lives hard
bye.
Stranger. And can you tell me whether there
is such a young woman in the house, as Ellen Rice?
John. "There is such a girl, and a very genteel
girl too. A prettier girl is not in these parts
Stranger. And her behaviour, Is she well be-
haved.
John. To my mind, she is a medest decent girl.
Stranger. 1 am her father. You don’t remem-
ber me.
John. Are you Andrew Rice, my old neigh-
bour that went abroad.
Stranger. The very one, and 1 never heard of
my poor child since the day I left her sucking
Joanny Noonan.
Rose. Well, well ! think of that !
Enter Joanny Noonan, I believe I have no bu-
siness here, a poor creature that I am.
John, Come in, Joanny. I'd be sorry to lean
heavy on them that are down.
Stranger (whispers.) Don’t tell her who I am.
Go on talking of Ellen.
John. We are talking of Ellen, Joanny; this
entleman wants to know her character.
Joanny. What I say of any body will never be
minded again; but, Sir, there never was a better
girl, nor a milder, nor a discreeter, nor prudenter,

nor handsomer, though she was in disgrace the

other day, and got great blame, but it’s all clear--

ed off the innocent creature, barring the bit
of meat, and it was my fault that ever she laid
her hands on that. ’Twas I, thinking it no harm,
often used to be asking her, why she never brought
me a taste of fresh meat, or a morsel of butter
which she made with her own pretty hands; and
so she took a bit one day, and being, as she never
touched any thing before, she was all of a tremble

o : .
when the young lady met her, and she cried like

1
913

“the rain drops for that; and blamed herself as
much as if she stole a mint of money. As for all
the other things that were laid to her charge, eve-
ry one knows who took them now, but I say no-
thing, when my darling is clear.

Stranger. Do you remember Andrew Rice that
owes you so much money?
Joanny. That I do well, but he owes me no-
pe ay payment enough to have that beauti-
tcrea grown up as she is; any how, I gave
up seeing her people long ago.
Stranger. Here is her father standing before you.
Joanny. My blessing’s on you for a fine gen-
tleman. I'll run and call Ellen this minute, that

“you may lay your two eyes upon her. It will do

you good -after your journey; for the most tired
time ever I was, the sight of her would rest me, or
comfort me in my troubles. :

Edward. Tl go for her if you please, and I
won't tell her who is here till she comes. (Exit.

Andrew. That's a fine smart young man.

_ Joanny. He's nothing else. I'll be bound that
it’s he won't be long running there and back again.
_ John. The boy is a pretty smart boy, and what
Is better, he is a good boy, though I say it.

Andrew. You have a right to know.” To make
the time a little shorter, while T am expecting my
poor girl, I may be asking you ‘about the neigh-
bours.

John. It would not be any wonder, if vou
thought long to know about them, as you were
born and bred here.

Andrew. ‘The day I landed, the first thine I
called for, was a newspaper, and the name of Kil-
minagh fixt my eyes, as I was looking over the pa-

per, so I read on: I don’t exactly remember the

words, but I have not lately heard of such a piece

-of knavery, as was proved against a young man of

1 . - >.
tne name of William Owens of Kikininagh.

 
214

Rose... Could it be Billy Owens? What did
he follow, do you know?

Andrew. He had been a clerk to a Mr. Jack-
son. and was lately taken into partnership.

John. The very one :—-well ?

Andrew. It was proved on him, that he pri-
vately sent away the goods, and altered the figures
in the accounts, and I could not tell you all,—
but Jackson was almost ruined before he found
him out, and they say he was hard enough set, to
cet Owens off from being hung, but he will be
transported.

Rose. It was no wonder for his mother and sis-
ters to look pale.

John. No wonder indeed! Unfortunate people !

Andrew. They are long coming : What keeps
them.

(He looks out of the window.)

Rose. You are impatient, Sir, that makes the

time seem long ; there’s Edward’s step now.

Enter Edward and Ellen.

Joanny. My blessing’s on you both for a likely
air.

Ellen (blushing.) How are you, nurse. Did you
send for me.

Joanny. 1 did send for you, and I never sent
for you that you did not come to me as well as now.

Andrew (aside) What a lovely creature !
Young woman, d'd you hear that your father was
come home from America.

Ellen. No, Sir, indeed I did not heart: where
is he now.

Andrew. He's not far off, you may expect to
see him to-night

Lilen. If you'd be pleased, Sir, to tell me where
he is, I'll run and see him this minute.

Andres. Well, my dear child, he now embraces
you, (kisses her) my dear girl!

215

Lillen. Oh! I am too happy; first to get back
my fhresnnn then my father.

ndrew. Your father wi { our

le, You ill defend your charac-

John. Now, my good friend, we won’t ask you
to tell us where you were, and what you were do-
ing, till after supper; you must lodge with us, if -
you please; and I'm sure Mrs. Williams won't
hinder Ellen from coming down to us. Ned go
to the hall, and ask Mrs. Williams, would she be
pleased to let Ellen stay to sup with her father at
our house. May be, you had better go yourself
too, Ellen, (Exeunt Edward & Ellen.

Joanny. What a fine blush is on her two cheeks
and her eyes as bright in her head as the stars
above. Myself doats upon every inch of her.

Andrew. 1 won’t say what I think of her: but
nurse, you shall be rewarded.

Joanny. It’s reward enough to see her happy.
Scene changes to Owens’ house and family.

Mark. So you are come home too, Peggy
“Well, that was a badly managed thing altogether.
I never thought that Mr. Williams was so sly.
But since it turned out as it did, our best plan now
1s, to quit the country for good and all ; and that’s
what I’ll do, without loss of time. ;

Nelly. And what will you do with all your fur-
niture, and our bit of land.

Mark. As for the furniture, we'll sell them for
a trifle, and we'll sell every thing else that can be

sold, and put the money in our pockets, and away

with us.

Nelly. And the rent.

Mark. ‘That's what makes me so willing to go.
We owe a pretty penny for rent; what things we
can’t sell, will partly pay it, and as for the rest,

we'll put the key under the door, and no more
about it,

 
216

Larry. The sooner we go, the better. I would
not stay here if I got an estate.

Tom. Nor I neither.

Betty. Nor I, I am sure.

Peggy. 1 wish we were out of it now. ys

Betty. Who'd think last night, when the Min-
ches were drinking fe with us, that they'd be

owing over us to-night. :
gs °on Betty or made a shew of yourself
with ¢ my brother William did this, and my bro-
ther William did that,” and your Mr. and your
Sir. You made me sick, Betty.

Pegey. What will become of the Noonans, I

2
ar I'll engage the Noonans are safe enough,
they had not far to fall, like us, and hey C47
poor peel: that may be they’d live under Mr.
in ill
i : Any how, I don’t think Ellen will
be married to Edward, for he is not easy turned,
and by all Socounts, a gave her up entirely, when

, at she did.
Moe ont be bothering us about Ellen,
I don’t believe either she or Edward, have Soy
thoughts of marrying or courting, good or bad.

Tom. 'That’s not my opinion. I can see as

well as another, but what matter about it. I won-

der is there any thing lying about the yards there .

above, that would answer us afore we go. ;
Larry. The never a bit of me will venture my
life any more, while I'm here, any way. ;
Nelly. It’s getting very late: We ought to go
® iy Not a wink I'll sleep this night.
Larry. I'd as soon take a walk out as go to bed.
Tom. Myself will do the same.
Betty. Not a wink I slept last night, after get-
ting that letter. oe
Peggy. It’s my belief, that I'll never get a good

 

 

night's sleep while I live; and, indeed, I wish I
never was born. : :

Mark, Many a time I wished the same since
morning.

Nelly. Lord preserve us! What will become
of us all. We may as well be in one place as ano-
ther, for we’ll never have comfort any where,

Larry. Tl go to sea.

dom. TI list.

Betty. Ill go to service in Dublin.

Peggy. What little wages T have, will take me
to England. I'll go to my cousin that wrote for me
so often,

Nelly. Then we won't have a child in the
world to take care of us in our old age, and we
ashamed to shew our faces. But oh, my darling
Billy, that I doated upon, above them all.

Mark. Don’t be bothering us with your fret-
ting, if you fret yourself to nothing, it won’t undo
what’s done.

Nelly. 1 wish it could.

Larry. If we had been reared right, we would
not be scattered this way, nor you would not be
left desolate.

Mark. 1till becomes you to say that, Larry,
so it does, after the cost I was at schooling you,
and binding you ’prentice.

Larry. If I got learning abroad, I did not sce
what was good at home, and it’s sc seen now.

Mark. All I can say is, that you are an impu-
dent rogue, both at home and abroad. (Exit,

Larry. He may go now, afier leading us into
all this trouble.

Tom. It would be better for us never to have
known a trade, or learned a letter, than to be this
way all tossed to pieces, flying from the place
where we were bred and born.

Nelly. Oh, dear! bless me, but we are.a mi
serable family this minute. Oh dear! Oh dear!

K

 
2i8

i i d this way !
fier all my my long life, for it to en
Well. 3% " heart Js ase io Baa Sh
And Billy, oh my poor billy, that Tudged «
ind to blow through his ye .
a ee him more, he that was my depend.
ence, if alt came to oh ol, eh goa le
y world entirely ! ! :
yond wh day one-and-twenty years; i 1
a not let him go then, bu prayed Sem
im turn out what way he would : | tha
i ih had never come back when he fainted

gn All your trouble is for Bill, sure we're

sasha. We can’t be worse, and I know your fa-
i) than ever to me. i
ar: he will, when he has nothing
im pleasant. :
a Honor Doran 1s a mem to me
ir ith her little pitcher. :
pe Iv : i folly to talk, but Edward’s words
were true, that I, many a time heard Li say,
The honest heart that’s free from
Intended fraud or guile,
However fortune kick the ball,
Has still some cause to smile.

nche side.
Scene changes to Minche’s fire

- ? 3
Je g

John. Well, and after your wife died, did you
continue to live with the good gepdenian ny
Andrew. 1 did indeed, and woul pi 8
with him still, only he died, and in his v i.
me 500 dollars, as a reward for my a a jee
honesty ;” these were his words, and 1 Reve: or
get them: many a time I read them ov

week after he died, and almost blotted them eut

 

 

with my tears. “When he was gone, and my poor
Jenny gone, I thought I had no tie in America,
I ought to come home and see my child, and re-
ward old Joanny. The state of uncertainty about
her was very distressing to us, but you see we
could not help it.

John. You could not, indeed, and when you
got no answers to. your letters, it was no wonder
for you to think your letters never reached them,
or that the rebellion had killed us all, or driven
us out of house and home. :

Enter Mr. Williams. As we have such unplea-
sant neighbours, I thought it my best plan to come
for Ellen myself; she can see her father in the
morning.

Andrew. You are like a father to the father-
less. My poor child wanted for no care or in-
struction with you. I’m sure she always had the
best advice. May you be rewarded for it: and
you will be rewarded.

Myr. Williams. It would be the greatest happi- .
ness of my life to benefit my neighbours, and to
confide in them, if they deserved it, but I am
grieved to find that I have been greatiy deceived
by some of them. Poor creatures! I'm afraid
they will not have much rest to-night. I'm sure,
I shall not sleep much. What an uncommonly in-
genious family the Owens are ! Surely their inge-
nuity, combined with their industry, must have
raised them into very comfortable life, if they had
but been honest.

John. Few people are so ingenious ; but these
kind of people ought to be even more careful of
themselves than we, that have not so many things
coming into our heads.

Mr. Williams. Come, Ellen, are you ready?

ZLillen. Yes, Sir.

Edward (whispers to Ellen.) Won't you come
to-morrow.

 
220

Ellen (blushing.) If I can, I will.

My. Williams. She shall come and see you to-
morrow, Edward, and you must come and see her
too.

Andrew. Ts that the way with the young people?

John. If you have no objection, I have none:
But I would not have you give your daughter away
to any one, before you know him. I hope my son
will bear to be examined.

John. He has the look of it.

a (both blushing.) Good night.

Scene, John Minche's parlour.
John and Rose sitting by the fire.

Enter Mrs. Williams and Sophia.

Jokn. You're kindly welcome, Ma'am; you're
welcome Miss Sophia: will you be pleased to sit
down.

Mys. Williams. We thank you. How do you
do to-day? I'm afraid I shall become a very trou-
blesome neighbour to you. )

Rose. Not at all, Ma’am. Is there any thing
we could be of service to you about.

Mis. Williams. You see that we have lost our
cook, and that we have little chance of keeping
our house-maid long. Sophia has taken a great
liking to poor Biddy Noonan, our wash-woman,
but I could not think of having a girl out of that
family, without getting the best advice on that
subject, therefore I came over to speak to you,
whom I can depend on. ;

John. You are pleased to think so, Ma’am, and
it's my fervent wish and prayer, that we may de-
serve your good opinion. Poor creatures, like us,
ought to be on the watch, that we may not fall in<
to temptation,

 

221

Rose. 1 was thinking all day of mentioning
poor Biddy Noonan to you, as she is used to the
house; and as it is my opinion, and John’s, that
she is an honest girl, and a discreet well behaved
handy girl, but 1 was loath to mention one out of
that unfortunate family.

John. Poor creatures! I can’t get them out of
my head, and it shews how much on our guard
we ought to be, for Darby and Joanny were count-
ed honest people till more temptations came across
them, than what they were used to. Our little
girl, as I may call Ellen now, would not be tired
praising them.

Mis. Williams. But how happened it that Bid-
dy should have preserved her honesty, living
amongst them.

John. Why then I believe T could tell you that
same. In the first place, Ma'am, she was ver
industrious, and did not allow herself time to be
brewing mischief: and then, again, the girl was
not vain or covetous, but contented herself to dress
like a working girl, and did not long for every fine
thing she laid her eyes on. And, besides all that,
which I may say was her own natural goodness; ¥
must say, that ny woman here, always had a leaning
to her, and used to bring her in upon our floor, to
wash for us, and help to clean up ‘the place when
Mary was minding or doing any thing, for neither
Rose nor I are over and above strong: and why
Ned keeps in the little mill always, so that, if we
had a bit of corn to winnow, or meal to sift, or the
like, Mary must be minding it; then, I say, we
used to send for Biddy, and I believe, I can say,
she never saw a dishonest turn doing in this house,
and we talked of the good of honesty, (may be,)
more in Biddy’s hearing than we would, if she was
not listening ; and, Ma’am, to the value of a pin,
we never lost by the girl, to my knowledge.

Mrs. Williams. 1 always liked Biddy, since the

X2

 
229

time that she brought me a yard of muslin, which
she said, she supposed her sister had forgotten to
bring home with my gown. It struck me at the
time, that Judy had not forgotten, and the next
time I saw her, I asked her if any of my gown was
left? No, not so much as would make a little hex-
agon ; if there was the least sloping, she would have
brought it to Miss Sophia for her quilt. 1 made
no remark, but determined to be more watchful in
future.

John. It’s well you said nothing, or poor Bid-
dy would pay for it.

Mrs. Williams. 1 think then that I will hire
Biddy, if she is willing to come. :

Sophia. Oh mother, I'm very glad of it—I will
shew her how to make all the soups, and gravies,
and hashes, and every thing that I learned out of
your receipt-book.

Rose. My blessing’s on you for the friend of the
poor, you deserve to have luck, and meet with
honesty and gratitude.

Mys. Williams. Now you have matched me
with a cook, what shall I do for a house maid ? I
don’t know how to ask you for Mary.

John. It’s a great trouble to me to refuse you
any thing you set your mind upon; but ma'am, I
could not think of leaving my old woman without
her danghter.

Rose. O, John, let her go, and I'll do finely
with a little girl we could hire.

John. It’s a folly to be going round about the
bush, I cannot let her go—you must keep your
daughter, after rearing her as you.did : you de-
serve to have her to take care of you, and to do
for you now.

Ms. Williams. You are very right, John.

John. Tobe sure, ma’am. I can tell you, that
within this twelve-month, she has refused no less
than four decent boys, because she would not

 

223

leave her mother. Indeed if she was i
T, s in want of
clothes, or the like, I would not hinder her to go;
bal thank Pronencs, we have plenty for her,
and we are all both able and willing to tak
the old woman there. Flot ontal
Rose. I could not see the mistress in distress.
John. T’ll tell you what we’ll do: Ellen need
not be in any hurry to come home—let her sta
there while the mistress is looking about her, on
we'll all be looking about : and if it did not answer,
ad thay Ned was not satisfied to leave Ellen till
ano ? i
nd was hired, sure we’d send Mary for a little
Mrs. Williams. Let us leave it
. that way then :
we must have patience, and perhaps all will turn
out well. Andrew Price has agreed to be our
siovands, hewn live in Owens’s house with Ed
ward an en, and we ar heiwiedding
pend fd) r ‘we are to have the wedding
John. 1 pray that the
young couple may b
oy o Sou gooduesses, What rhs Yc
erity in the world, unless good
easy mind accompany it. Pr adn
brs. Williams. Good morning to you
r Exeunt Mrs. Williams and Sophi
Rose. Is it not a poor case to have th dk
people wronged this way. Sure it would be no
wonder if such usage made them hard-hearted.

Enter Betty Owens, crying.
Oh dear! what will become of us all
waiting about the ditches this hour
house lonesome before I'd come into it.
John. I'm sorry for you Betty.
Betty. 1 know you are. If I had taken your

! I am
, till I'd see the

advice, I would net be this wa Oh!

: ay. 1! I

was in trouble till now, though I can’t oS det
sieht ; for I was always so afraid that we’d be
found out, that I did not relish the bit I eat, as]

 
224%

used long ago: and more times I'd have frightful
dreams, and start out of my sleep. Many’s the
time I envied poor people walking the road, that
were not afraid to meet any one, or to look up in
people’s faces. As I laid out to go to Dublin, I
called in to bid you farewell.

Jokn. Well, child, if you are going to Dublin,
you are going to a dangerous place, where there
is a great deal of bad company and temptations ;
and the people there are so cunning, that they are
continually on the watch to out-wit one another;
and when you think you are safe, that’s the time
you might be betrayed and ruined. |

Betty. Oh sure Pll never lay a finger onany
thing again, while I have breath in my body.

John. Don’t be too sure of yourself—you don’t
know till you are tried, but you should pray to be

preserved from temptations. How well our Lord

knew our weakness, when he bid us pray “not to
be led into temptation.”

Betty. 1am for ever obliged to you for your
advice, instead of abusing me; but it’s a poor
thing to be going to a strange place, without com«
mendation or character.

John. Thank Providence, it is never too late
to make a good character for ourselves; but a
character is not to be made in a hurry.

Betty. Oh that I never had the luck to touch
the sugar I saw on Miss Kinchela’s table when I
was quite small—that was the beginning of all my
trouble, though it never was found out from that
dav to this.

John. Oh, Betty! scethe danger of one false
step. : ;

Scene changes to Noonan’s cabin.

Dan lying on the bed—his mother lamenting over
him-—Darby sitting by the fire, with his head be

 

225

lween his knees——the two ; }
¢ oung girls w ¢
about. ; 98 2 ns

Enter Mrs. Williams and Miss Sophia.

Joanny. Oh mistress, I beg your pardon, for
bringing you into this poor place—I did not mean
you should come yourself, only I bid Ellen men-
tion, how my poor boy was kilt entirely.

Mrs. Williams. Killed! Ithoughthe was only hurt.

Joanny. 1 thought so myself at first, because
I hoped he was no worse than he often came home
from a fight: but mistress, jewel, they kilt him
dead entirely, so they did, the villains!" and now
they are gone off, nobody knows where.

Mrs. Williams. He looks very ill, indeed ; but
I see no marks of violence on his face.

Joanny. Oh no, mistress, none at all upon his
face, but plenty on the back of his head. Oh, the
back of his head is ruined—ruined for good and
all, and his poor heart. Oh my boy ny boy !
He'll never do any good. he

Say. Oh mother, whisht; may be he'll hear
you.

Joanny. Not he. Sce he never stirs. Dan
my jewel, will you speak to your own mother ?
Sure it’s I that’s in it: Dan, do you hear me.
No, no—he won’t look at me—he’ll never look
at me, nor speak to me again !

Darby. Come out of that Joanny, and let him
die in peace.

Joanny. Oh, Darby, for the Lord’s sake, let
me stay with him, and have the last look at him.
It s short he’ll be in it, and I'll soon follow him
I'll never hold up my head again.

Darby. [to himself.] No blame to you, poor
woman—your heart’s broke, and mine’s not much
better.

Mrs. Williams. Does he never take a sup of
any thing? Here is some wine,

 
226

Joanny. Where are you, Biddy ?—wet his
mouth now. Ie never let any one give him a
sup but Biddy, since he lay down; for,” says he,
when he was able tospeak, “she always saidagainst
me when she saw what I was doing.”

Enter Edward.

How is Dan now ?

Judy. He can’t be worse.

Joanny. Oh my blessing’s on you, and that
vou may get her that we all love—sure they’d have
killed my son stone dead on the spot, if ®t was
not for you.

Ned.” 1 wish 1 had happened to be going by a
little sooner, for 1 see I was too late to save him.

Joanny. Oh, you were too late-—you were too
Jute—too late to save my peor boy.

Dirs. Williams. Were both the Owens en-
gaged in this dreadful business ?

Edward. Indeed, ma'am, they were; one was
as bad as the other, and both swearing that it
was poor Dan that informed on them—not 2
word they would let him speak.

Joanny. Oh sure one stroke of those knotty
hurls would stun him—it was hard for him to
speak.

Mrs. Williams. You think those men are quite
out of reach.

Edward. They flew over the ditch, and across
the fields the minute they saw me, and as soon as
I could take my eyes off poor Dan, they were out
of sight.

Mrs. Williams. What wretches! and how fa-
tal for this poor family to have been connected
with them ! But look—I believe he is dead—no,
he sighs again.

Joanny. Oh thet was his last sigh—he’s gone—
he’s gone—he’s gone for ever! Dan, Dan, Dan,
I may speak to you now, and I can’t disturb you.

 

OO
27

All the family burst forth into a passion of grief-
Mrs. Williams and Edward endeavour to J
them, but in vain. !

Mrs. Williams. Sophia, my d is i

ik . y my dear, this is an
affecting scene, but I do not wish you to turn
away from beholding misery.

Feud, I'll go and send my mother to them.

Mrs. Williams. As we can be of no use here

now, we will go with vou.