LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS AT URBANA-CHAMPAICN 823 L46c V.1 COTTAGE DIALOGUES. T. Btnsleji, Printer, MtU Court, Fltet Strut, Lenien. COTTAGE DIALOGUES AMONG THE IRISH PEASANTRY. By MARY LEADBEATER. WITH NOTES AND A PREFACE BY MARIA EBGEWORTH, AUTHOR OF CASTLE RACKRENT, &c. LONDON: PRINTED FOR J. JOHNSON AND CO. ST. Paul's churchyard. 1811. ADVERTISEMENT TO THE READER, Mrs. Leadbeater^ the author of this little book, is granddaughter to the first preceptor of Edmund Burke. She has in her posses- sion several of the letters of that great man, which she at present withholds from the public, from a delicacy that seems over- strained; but her moiives are certainly ho- nourable; and there are few examples of such scrupulous respect for the feelings of relatives in this age of gossiping anecdote, and epistolary publicity. Mrs. Leadbeater's modesty is such, that she would riot publish the following ^ Cot- tage Dialogues/ without consulting her li- terary friends : she requested to have, among others, the opinion of the writer of this ad- vertisement. That opinion, however insig- a 3 nificant, is given without reserve, entirely in favour of tliis useful work. It contains an exact representation of the manner of being of the lower Irish, and a literal tran- script of their language. None of the inter- locutors in these clialos:ues are destined merely to speak the author's fine sentiments, or to acknowledge the folly of all who are of an opposite opinion — one of the dramatis personse is not produced to harangue, and domineer, and the other to ask questions, and be refuted — one is not made a miracle of wisdom, and the other a man of straw — but the following are conxersations, which seem actually to have passed in real life ; the thoughts and feelings are natural, the re- flections and reasoning, such as appear to he suggested by passing circumstances, or personal experience. A few notes have been added, to explain to the English reader the Hibernian idiom, and local customs; but the general language and sentiments must be universally interesting, for in one word, the characteristic of the book is good sense. Prudence and economy, mo- rality and rcHgion, are judiciously and libe- rally diffused through the whole, without touching upon peculiar tenets, without alarming party prejudice, or offending na- tional pride. IF, some centuries hence, an Irish Hercu- laneum should be discovered, and if some future munificent and enlightened prince were to employ the skill and patience of one of his ingenious subjects to explore Hiber- nian libraries, this humble volume would perhaps reward his labours better than Gre- cian manuscripts have yet repaid the labori- ous researches of our contemporaries. Mart A Edge worth. Edgeworth Town, July J, 1810. CONTENTS. Page Dialogue 1. The Child in the cradle. 1 • • 2. Learning to sew 4 3. Going to the Fair 13 4. Returning from the Fair 17 5. Decorum 20 6. The Wake 26 » 7. Dress 31 8. Servitude 39 9« Servitude 45 10. Servitude 51 II. Servitude 55 12. Fidelity 6l 13. Benevolence 67 14. Housekeeping 72 15. Matrimony 81 16. Nursing 88 17. Squabbling 93 18. Chastisement 98 39. Sunday 103 20. Anger 109 CONTENTS. Dialogue 21. The Quarrel 114 22. The Reconcilement .... 121 23. The Garden 127 24. The House. 131 25. The Pig 135 26. Manure 139 27. The Dairy 144 28. The Cupboard 146 29. Cookery 151 30. False Report, and Slander 155 31. Wise Recollections l63 32. Cookery 16'9 .... 33. The Room 175 34. Starch 180 35, Washing 184 36. The Weather 187 37. Stirabout 190 38. Forecast 192 39. Concord 197 40. Concord 200 , , . 41. Spinning-match C02 42. Courtship 207 43. Courtship 211 44. Straw- platting 215 45. Cow-pock 223 46. Small-pox 227 47. Politicks 230 CONTENTS. Dialosrue 48. Charrins: 236 49. Charring 240 50. The Fire 244 51. The Fever 247 52. Whiskey 257 53. Degradation 260 54. Death 265 /. COTTAGE DIALOGUES. DIALOGUE L THE CHILD IN THE CRADLE.. Rose, Nancy, Rose. Nancy, Nancy, your mammy is looking for you. She wants you to hold the child, while she goes to dig the potatoes for the supper. Nancy, I can't go indeed. If she asks you for me, tell her you did not see me. Rose. That I won't. Don't you hear her calling, and did'nt you hear her before? Naticy. I did, but I was playing Jackstones with Judy, and I wanted to finish the game. B liosc. Oh, Nancy, how can you vex your poor mammy, who does every thing for you, and works early and late? Here slie is — come in now — she saw us, and slie is gone over tlie stile with the spade and the po- tato hasket Na7icy. Ay, little Bill is in the cradle asleep. Til leave him thercj and go out again. Rose. No, upon my word you shan*t. If you heard the frightful stories I did, you would never leave a child by itself. Nancy, What frightful stories* Do tell them to me. Rose, There was old Charley, tlie gingerbread-man, was left, when he was an infant, in the cradle by him- self, and while he was asleep, an ugly brute of a pig came in, and ate o^ his poor little hand, n5 it hung over. And there was a sow and little pigs on the floor with a young ■J- child, and its niair.niy went out, and bid its daddy take care of it, and lie bid another child watch it, while he took a nap, and when he wakened, he asked the child how the little one was; and she said he was very well, playing with the little pigs : then the man bounced up in the greatest fright that could be, and the poor little thing w^as all in a gore of bloody and its face so eat by tlie nasty «ow, that the life was out of it', sure enough. And, like that, there was another child that was left by itself, and it got out of the cradle, and crawled to the hearth, and its little petticoat took fire, and it was burned, to death. Naricy, O, indeed Rose, I will never leave the child again; often I have left it, and run honie before my mammy came, for fear she would beat me. Sure it was great luck* that nothing happened ! DIALOGUE II. LEARNING TO SEW. Nancy J Rose, Nanci/. Indeed, Rose, you will be quite a mope\ Have you not been picking potatoes for }Our fatlier all day, or leading the horse and car to draw them to the potato hole, and now you >it down to teach Kitty to work? Don't be such a black slave. Come to the dance at the Ball-alley; a «Teat many boys and oirls are there, and the new piper is come. Rose, No, Nancy, I have no time to spare for dancing; I have been on the foot all day, and had rather rest myself. But you mistake; I am not teaching Kitty to work, it is Kitty that is teaching me. Nancy, O fie ! I wonder you would demean yourself* to learn of your younger sister. I had rather go in rags, than sit down to learn to Avork from one so much less than myself. Rose, ^Fm not so then ; and I am very proud that Kitty can teach me. For my poor mother, though she is one of the best cabin-keepers ^ on the town-land, and can spin wool and flax with any one, and knits pretty well too, is not much good at her needle: and there was nothino; my father and she wished for so much, as to give their children a little learning; but as I was the oldest, I could not be spared to go to school, for my mother wanted me to sit by the cradle, nurse the child, wash the potatoes, and go of errands; and now I am grown pretty big, I help my father at out work. My mother sent Kitty to Mrs. Webster's 6 school, and she has marie a very good workwoman of her; and my greatest deliglit is to sit down with Kitty when she comes home in the cven- ingS) and learn to work from her, and now I can make a sliirt for my father almost as well as she can her- ■self. Na7tci/i ril be bound Kitty is conceited enougli that she can teach ■you — it M'iil make her very saucy, and she will crow over you, so that there will be no bearinor her. I al- ways keep my little sisters under cow, and make them do what I l«ike. Jfxose. And do tliey do what you like with a good will? Kancy. Indeed they don't, we have twenty lights before I can get them to do any thinir for me. Hose, That's bad, and vou must have more trouble making them do what you like, than in doino: it your- self. iSta7icy. I don't care, I show them that I am their elder sister, and T would not for the world be so mean spirited as you are, to sit down and learn from any of them. Rose, Why then, there's Kitty will do any thing \ want her to do, v/ith- out my asking, if she knows I want it done, for she would put her hands under my feet to serve me> Nancy, And she never laughs at you, aad calls you a fool, for not knowinijc how to work as well as her? Rose. No, no; nor I never laugh at her, nor call her a fool for not knowing how to lead a horse as well as I can. Besides, it's a very hard mat- ter to learn to scv after one is grown a good big girl, so I've no tune to lose, you see. The younger you learn it, the easier it is; and some people say, that girls who have only done out work till fourteen or fifteen, never come rightly to the use of the 8 iicedie. It is not like out of doors work, Avliich can be learned at any age, if you're hearty, and strong, and willing. Nancy. Well, but what signifies sitting down to break your heart with it, after your day's work? Rose. I find it the best way of resting: myself And sure it's yery pleasant to sit at the window and look out on my little garden, and sing, and \vork, and think that either myself or somebody else will be the better for what I am making and mending. Nancy, I belieye no body eyer though \t pleasant but yourself. Hose. Now, Nancy, I can tell you to the contrary, for at ^Ir. Moore's, where I went for a month to help the nursery maid w hile she was sick, w^orking was the greatest diyersion of all the ladies, old and young. And it was a mighty pretty sight of au evcnino:, affer they came in from walking, to see them all sitting round a bit>' table, with their work bags, and nice woik baskets before 'em. And wliat's more, didn't I hear Mr, Mooie say to the lady one evenings ^ My dear, you'll ruin your eyes with * so much work?' And didn't she make answer, ' Indeed I cannot give * it up, for it's my greatest amuse- * mentr' And Miss Emma Moore, a sweet little girl of ten years old, told nie, that when she went to England w^ith her papa, she saw a carpet in some fine place they called a cottage, near Windsor, I think, all knit by Now ril give you twenty guesses, to guess who. Nancy. By somebody that was well paid for it, I suppose. Rose. No, Nancy, by Queen Charlotte herself, with her own hands. Nancy, Botheration*^! Miss Emma B 5 10 told you a lie — no — that can't be nei- ther; none of that family ever told a lie in their li\ es. Well, if I was a Queen, it's long before I'd sit down to knit carpets. Rose. That may be, but while you've nobody to work for }ou, would it not be better to mend the rents I see in your gown, that was new last month? Nayicy. My gown is so good, I wou'd'nt like to see a darn in it yet^ Rose. Oh, Nancy, the worst darn, and the worst patch, is better than a rent or a hole. Being poor may make us go in old and threadbare clothes, but want of neatness and industry alone can keep us in ragged ones. Indeed, when I see a working- man in ragged clothes, I can't help in my own mind, blaming his wife, or sister, or mother. Nancy. ^Vhy, you're like my Lady riclfield, that gave a coat to Jack II Meadows, because she saw his old one all patched, and never a one to Tom Conry that was hanging in rags, and the greatest object of the two beside. I'm sure I cried out shame against her, after her back was turned. Rose, Why so? Consider the qua- iity very often have no way of guessing what we are, but by what they see. That good lady only came for a week to Mr. Nesbitt's on her way home to England; and Jack Meadows had all his poor old things so tight about him, and so well mended, that she saw her gift would be a comfort to him; but if she gave it to old Tom, she had reason to think it would soon be han2:ino: in rags, for want of a stitch. Nancy, Well, * live and learn,' who knows but I'll get you to teach me a little to morrow? Rose. Why not to day? 12 Nanci/. O, it might as well be done to day, to be sure, but I'd ra- ther come to morrow. Rose. Well, good by'e since youVe for going, but remember, Nancy, if something hinders you to morrow, that xchat may as well be done to day, had better be done to day. I read that in i\Iiss Emma's copy book" and often have I had reason to see the truth of it since. 1 Q DIALOGUE III. GOING TO THE FAIR. ■ ■' Nancy, Rose* Nancy. What, Rose, are not you going to tlie fair? Rose. No, my mother is going to buy trenchers, and a wooden bowl, and my father goes to sell the pig, so 1 can't go this turn. Besides, they don't like to let me go to a fair when I have no business. Nancy. O, Ptose, sure you're a young woman now, and it would be so pleasant to walk about the fair, and there's many a clean, likely boy, would ask you to drink a glass of punch in a tent. Rose, I think if I went into a tent to drink, it would be making 14, myself too cheap, and the clean, likely boy, might press me to take too much punch, and then hiugh at me beliind my back. Nanci/, Wellj since you are so nice, you need not go into a tent, but look at the standings. O the beau- tiful calicoes, they are so genteel, and so cheap, and muslins for next to nothms:. But your mother never buys at a standing. Rose. She says the goods that are sold so cheap are often damaged, and even if they are not, one should be very knowing for good and all, to deal with the people who keep tlie standings, for they will take so much less than they ask, that an ignorant person docs not know what to offer. So any little thing she wants she goes to a shop for, w here she can de- pend upon the people, that they will use her well. Now 1 have sixteen thirtccns of my own earning, and I \5 intend to buy a gown when Misd Keale's new calicoes come home. Nancy. How did you earn so much, beside all you did in and out of the house? Rose. Sure you know my mother works, and Kitty w^orks, and among us we get all our work done soon; so I take in spinning when I can get it to do. Nancij. Spinning! O law! sure you couldn't spin more than one dozen in the day, and that would be but tive pence. Rose. It's often I can*t spin half a dozen in a day, I have so much to do besides. ' Nancy. Well, I w^ould never think it worth Bvy while to sit down to a wheel, for two pence halfpenny a day. Rose. Two pence halfpenny a day is fifteen pence a w^eek, and that would be five shillings a month, and 16 if one earned a gown in three months^ would it not be better than sitting doinf>; nothing? Nancy, Do as you please; I will not kill myself with working. I will go to the fair, and think myself no- thing tlie worse if I take a glass of punch in a tent, and I may pick up a sweetheart into the baro-ain. Rose. The sw^eetheart you would pick up at a fair would not be worth havinor. Td hate to be flattered and palavered by a fellow that would di- vert the next boy he met, with tell- ing him how silly I was to believe all his nonsense. Nancy. I must be going. The housekeepers are coming home, and now is the time for a little fun. 17 DIALOGUE IV. RETURNING FROM THE FAIR» Rose, Nancy. Rose. Nancy, welcome back from the fair. Were you very merry? Nancy, I wish I had never gone near it, for a fairl Rose. Why so? Nancy, Nothing but vexations from beginning to end. I had eight and three halfpence to buy a shawl, a cap, and a ribband. I sold my good laying hen, and all my clutch of ducks, and all the eggs I could lay my hands on this long time, to make it up, and now it is all gone for nothino^. Rose. O dear! did you lose it? Nancy. Indeed I may say I lost IS it, (sure enough some of it I did lose,) and I'll tell you how. I went to a standing, wlieie every one said the things were dog-cheap, and I bouQ^ht a beautiful shawl for live tenpennies, and a cap, with a lace border, for three tenpennies and a fivepenny; so there was the most of my money gone, and I did not see a ribband I liked. Then Tom Connor came up, and he made me and Judy Kenagh go into a tent, and drink with him, and I threw my new shawl on me; and a\ hen we were shy of drinking more, we stood up to go out, but Tom swore we should take another glass, and he pulled at the shawl to hold me, and it tore like a bit of brown paper. I cried out murder, and run to tell the woman at the standin<>:, and make her oi\ e me back my money, but she had packed up, and was gone: — then I went to look at my cap, and I declare 19 it must be old muslin, for it was as rotten as dirt; and Tom and Judy laughed at me, and I cried for vex- ation, and when I came home, and thought to put up the rest of my money in my box, a tenpenny, and a few halfpence, I protest they were all gone, and I don't know how; may be they slipped through a little hole in my pocket, for when I untied the rag to pay for the things, I threw them in loose. I wish I had mended that hole v\dien I lost my thimble. Rose. Ay, Nancy, * a stitch in time, saves nine, and that nine saves ninety nine.* I am sorry for your loss, but may be it is all for the best, and that vou will not be so fond of a fair again. 20 DIALOGUE V. DECORUM. Rose, Nayici/, Rose. Nancy, I hope you won't be aftrontcd with nic for telling you, that you arc a good deal remarked for keeping company with Harry Deloglier; and indeed he is not a young man fit for an honest girl to keep company with. Nancy, O you are so particular! Harry's such a pleasant boy, and wears his hat on one side of his head so roguish, and walks with such a genteel air, looking about him, and smiling so coaxingly at every one, that one can't but like him, though he is a little wild, to be sure. Rose. I am afraid be is wicked^ 21 as well as wild; for I believe he spends a great deal of his time with idle women of bad character. Na7ici/. \\(' is a lad of spirit, not like Ills mope or a biother, tliat wears his hat straiglit on liis head, and walks on as if he ne\er thought of any thing but his business, never g ing out of the path, barring he meets an okl body, or a child; but Harry's all life! ^ Rose, I suppose you would not like to be seen with the girls he is so often with? Na7}cy. Me seen WMth bad girls! no indeed! nor would I speak to them, or look at the sam.e side of the road they were at. Rose. Then I think you should not be seen with a companion of their's. Nancy. It's quite a different thing you know; we excuse wiiciness in a young man. . Rose. Now, Nancy, I can't think why the same sin which makes us shun a woman like poison, shouhl be thought so little of in a man. Sin is sin, let who will commit it. Nancy, To be sure it is; but a bad woman is worse than a bad man, Rose, I allow that she is; but who .makes w^omen bad? Many of tliese unfortunate creatures were in- veigled by such young fellows as Harry, and then left to be despised and hated. And even Harrv himself, and the like of him, think the less of decent girls w^hen they see them 60 ready to excuse misbehaviour, iind often turning it to a joke. Nancy. . V^'ell, but there's a saying among the Quality, that a reformed Rake makes the best husband. Rose, An unfortunate saying it is, and cost many a woman dear that believed it. You might remember, when we were little girls, Billy O'Shaugnes-sy, that was much such another as Harry is novv% in his time, and the girls admired him, and flirted with him, and thought Judy Tim- 2iiin$ the happiest girl in the parish, when he chose lier for a wife. In- deed I remember hearing it said, that her father and mother and the old people were not for the match; /but her sisters, and the young girls . encouraged her, and more envied her her happiness; but happiness was all over with her when she got settled down to humour Billy; she repented her marrying him but once, and that was her whole life. Nancy, .JJidn't he love her? she .was a mighty pretty girl- Rose. Love her, no: he ioved no one but himself; his heart was hard, because he had got the way of al- ways indulging himself; and the fus* the grirls made about him had made him 80 conceited, tliat he looked 24 ilown upon women; and having kept company with the worst sort, he had an inditlerent opinion of them all. Besides, as his wife was pretty, he Avas jealous of her, and for that rea- son he could not love his children as he ought, and he had no comfort in his family, and let his family have no comfort. Nancy. VV^as not Sally Flinn Judy's fust cousin? Rose, Yes, and she married one that you would call a mope, I sup- ^ pose, hut she had her father's and her mother's full and free consent, and the blessing; of all the old neiirh- hours; but the young people turned up their noses at Peter Lynch, be- cause he was a reserved young man, seldom went to a dance, and gene- rally spent Sunday evening reading to his grandmother, who was bed- ridden. Sally liked him the better for that, and an excellent good hus- 25 baud he made her, and a tender fa- ther to his children, and they were always glad to hear his step coming into the door, he was so pleasant. They were poor, but his wife had heart to help him, he was so kind to her; and when his children were able to work, they thought they could not do enough for so good a father. *c 26 DIALOGUE VL Tin: A^'AKi:. Ilose^ Kaiicy, Rose. Poor Ned Kinsclagh is dead, and has left a distressed familv in- deed ! Nancy. Is he? poor soul! — 1 am very sorry. — Will you come to the Wake to night? Rose. I intend, when I liave cleaned up the house, to go and sit awhile with the poor old neiglihour. Shall I call on you to come with me? Nancy, No. I'll not go so soon. 1*11 sit up all night. Rose. Ah, now Nancy, don't do that. Why should you lose your na- tural rest? Nancy. And why should you lose 27 yo«-rs? 3^ou sate up two nights with him while he was sick. Rose. Oh, that was quite differ- ent, you know; but now, when the poor man is gone, sitting up will be of no ur>c to him. Nancy. It's not to be of use to him I'll sit up, but to have a little diversion. Hose, Well to be sure, I wonder, of all things, how people can be playing and diverting tlicmseives, and a poor fellow-creature dead be- fore their eves, and don't know how soon themselves may be lying in the same way ! Nancy. O yes, I remember how you behaved at Nelly ]\Iurphy's wake; how you looked at her under the table, and burst out crying; you spoiled all bur comfort and satisfac. tion. I am sure not one of us ever desired to meet you at a wake again. Rose, How could I help crying c 2 28 to see the clever, clean, likely young woman, cut down like a flower, in a few clays, and her poor old mother rocking with grief in the chimney corner! I wondered how any one could laugh and be merry in such a place. Nancy, Why it would help to keep up the poor woman's heart to see a little fun going on. Rose, Oh, not at all, but make her a great deal worse; and I'll en- e:a2:e she thought it very cruel to have such a noise in the place, and no one minding her, except some old people that bid her not fret, and she fretted the more for that. Nancy, Really they say that Nelly got her death at Pat Doghery's wake, for he died of a fever, and she remarked the heavy smell that was in the room, and she took sick and died very soon after. Rose. I don't doubt it, and I would not wonder if many a one got sickness at a wake; so many crowd in, and often into a close room, and when it is a heavy sickness, sure it must be dangerous. Nancy, Then indeed, people should consider that, and know what dis- order the person died of; for one's own wake is not a pleasant thing to think of. Rose, Ah, my dear Nancy, if we thought more about that time, it would be better for us; and how can we help thinking of it, when a neighbour lies before us, stiff and cold, that was as well and as hearty as ourselves a little while before. Oh sure it's no time for play^! Nancy, Would you leave the poor corpse by itself, as I hear they do in some places? Rose, No, I would not : to be sure there are different customs in differ- ent places, and we show our love and 30 respect to our neighbours by sitting quietly by them wlien they are deral, and talking over ail their goodness, and crvino^ ibr them; and we feel our hearts soft and tender, and we love our neighbours that are alive better, when we think in how short a time all our lives will be over, and that w^e don't know how soon it will be our turn to p-o. If I had mv will I would never let more tlnn lialf a dozen sober neighbours sit up at a wake. 31 DIALOGUE VI. DRESS.' Rose, Nancij, Rose. Well met, Nancy ! I am glad we both have got leave to come and see our people at the same time, that v/e may see one anotlier too. Ndjici/. ludeed, Rose. I believe it would have been better for us to have staid at home at our ease, and not have gone to make slaves of ourselves for the lucre of a little money. Rose. Do you forget, Nancy, our hardships at home, and how hard it was to make out a living for the family? I thought bad, to be sure, of leaving- my father and mother, but it was time for me to do for my- 32 self, and they liacl a heavy charge enough without me. And now it is such a pleasure to me to be able to send them a little help now and then. Naiicy. Why what help can you send them out of five guineas a year, and put up decent things for your- self? I get the same wages, but it can hardly do — only the shopkeeper trusted me I could not bring a gown, or any thing fit to be seen, to wear here among the neighbours. Rase. What do you call fit to be seen"? Nancy. A white cambrick muslin gown, and, to match that, a white dimity petticoat, white cotton stock- ings, Spanish leather shoes, and a plush bonnet. Rose. If you dress at that rate, five guineas will go a short way in- deed. To be sure you have a right to do as you please with your own 33 earnings, but, dear Nancy, never go into debt: it is so much pleasanter to wear what is paid for, and you must pay one time or other, or live in constant dread and shame. Nancy. How do you manage with your clothes, then? you look clean and smooth enouo'h. Rose. I contrive to have one good caHco for Sundays, then I have ano- ther a little worse, and a bed gown made out of an old one, that I wear every day in the mornings, and all day when I am washing, for it saves my gown greatly. In winter I never wear a calico gown, but on Sundays. I like cambletee, it is very good wear. I have worsted stockings for winter, and dark cotton for summer, for I cannot afford to wear white, because my leather shoes would dirty them in a day, for I can't reach to nice leather either, and I strive to have three good shifts at least. I c 5 34 got a liat and a coriting cloak; I do not like plush l)onncts, they arc little good, though they look so pretty when they are new. Nancy. Well, you will be such a dowdy, that the bachelors won't look at you; as sure as Fm here you'll be an old maid ! Rose. It's the least of mv trou- bles how the bachelors like me, and I am sure it is a thousand times bet- ter to be an old maid, than lead the miserable lives some women da. There's now Jenny Lanagan, that thou oh t she could never dress her- self fine enough^ and flirted with half the boys in the country: what a poor ^'street she is now, with a dirty rag of a white gow^n hanging behind her, and her poor broken out child on her arm, following her hus- band to the ale-house, to trv to sret him home. If she had not been in 5ucli haste to marrv but minded her business, she might have got a good sober young man, that would keep her comfortable, but it is not to be expected that a man who will make a good husband, will look for any girl, but one that will be likely to make a good wife. Indeed, I know very well that men like to see girls dressed neat and clean, and I see how thev lauQ:h at Judv JNIaclaurin for walking: out with her o-reat coat thrown on, and her arms not put into the sleeves. Nancif. Ay, and it's sometimes hung from her head, to save the trouble of putting on a hat; but she wears very good thin^gs on a Sunday. Rose. Yes, much finer than she can well afford. The worst of it is, that many who dress out the finest one day, are the dirtiest and most sloven! v the next. Now one shouUl be clean and tidy QXQvy hour of one's 36 life; it keeps one in good humour somehow, and one goes more readily about one's business. A slip-shod shoe will give any girl a lazy, creep- ing, shuffling walk, and a gown or petticoat that wants a string, and is but half pinned on, hinders one from doing work with satisfaction. Nancy, By the way, Rose, that's a mighty pretty cap you've got on. How much did it cost? Rose. I always make my own caps; they cost less at first, and last twice as long, because the ready- made caps are generally made of the worst materials, and sometimes of damaged muslin, or some clear dab that has no wear in it, with a bit of cotton lace, that washes into holes the first or second time it is wet. Naiicif. I do not know how it is; I can never get my caps to look well on me. 37 Rose. I think you never will, while you keep such a wad of hair under them. Cut off that great load of hair, Nancy, my dear, and your cap will look as well as any one else's. Besides, you have not time to give it much combing, and with- out that, nothing looks so scandalous. It dirties your cap too, in a minute, and in summer keeps you in a heat, and is mighty unpleasant. Nancy, I intend to keep it cleaner than I did afore, but I was above ffivins: mvself much trouble about it of late, because I heard my master's sister (when she thought I was not listening,) talking about it having a heavy smelT^; so, to show I was above her dirty remarks'^, I never put comb in it from that day to this. Rose, Well, Nancy, all you say shows me you had better get rid of it, and if you keep your hair in a 38 dirty condition, out of a little pride and contradiction, I can only say, the morc's the pity; I would not have believed it, if I had not heard it from your own mouth. 59 DIALOGUE VIIL SERVITUDE. Nancy, Rose. Nancy. I did not know, Rose, you had so hard a mistress, till Dolly Biirnc, from your place, told us how barbarously she used you; and you never say a word, you are so close. Rose. I will make no complaints of my mistress, she is a goodnatured woman in the main. Nancy. Goodnatured! and expect more from you than any two ser- vants could do! Rose. O, now you go too far. — The truth is, mv mistress was never in the way of doing house business herself, and so she does not know what a servant should do; but then 40 if she is a little unreasonable some- times, she is too easy again at other times, and so, by going steadily on, the business can be done. Nancy. But she scolds you great- ly, don't she? or is she any better than she was, for I hear every one jrave her a terrible name for cross- ness and unreasonableness? Rose. She is a passionate woman, and her not knowin«: what time it takes to do a thing frets her; but when one knows it is a way she got, and that she has not a bad heart, and wdien one makes her no saucy answers, all passes off well enough, and she is not near so cross as she was, and is often very kind to me. Nancy. I think she would match me w^ell enough, for if she w^orked me too hard, and then gave me time to take my lling a little, I would like it better than to be always kept to it from morning to night, doing, 41 doing — ^barring that if I can get my work done, my mistress never hinders me sitting down to work for myself'*, and sometimes she will send me to walk with the children, and stay at home herself to do turns. Rose, That is very good of her, and sure you know business must be done, and it is so pleasant to know what one has to do, and get through it. Nancy, O, you don't know all my hardships! First, my mistress is a very early woman; in winter we must be up before it is light, and in summer five o'clock must never find one of the family in bed'^ Rose, That would be my delight. It is the finest thing to be up early, one gets through business so com- fortably, one thing don't catch ano-. ther, and one is so pleasant and good- humoured, and then often a quiet evening to one'self. Indeed I often 42 think it is like people working liard when they're young and strong, and takins: their ease when old ai>:c comes; and t})en again, when people are idle in tlieir youth, tliey are often obli":ed to work harder than thev are well able, when they are old, to put a bit in their mouths. So, Nancy, I cannot see any liardship in that, if you go early to bed. Nancy. Our house is settled, doors locked, and windows fastened, at ten o'clock. It's a great thing would keep us up till eleven. Rose. Then I'm sure vou c:ct sleep enough. Our liouse is not regular; liowever I strive to get throuQ^h my business eaily, or I'd be irreatlv liurried in the dav. Najicij. There is such nicety about the milk vessels, washing th^ milk off with cold water, and brush- insr the chinks before I can scald a pail; and I lia\ e the cluirn to scour 45 ottcn when I think scalding would do well enough, that I am sure is a hardship. Rose. You know vou can never have good butter, if the vessels are not kept quite clean; and what good is pretending to any thing without doing it right? and just give your- self the way of it, and it will come quite easy, and it takes less time and labour to clean them often, than to neglect, and strive to bring them to themselves again. Nanci/. We have, indeed, the best butter that goes to market; it brings the highest penny; and if there is not trouble enough making it, I wonder at it. Such washing to get the milk thoroughly out, and work- ing the salt so well in; then, after lying awhile, another washing, and a light salting; working it bit by bit, for fear of its being pirf-rowed; and then it must be so well packed in 44 the tub, and covered after every packing with fresh pickle. O what a weary job it is! Rose. But sure, if ever you have the hick to have a cow of your own, you will be well oif to know how to make butter, and nothing is to be learned without some trouble. 45 DIALOGUE IX. SERVITUDE. Rose^ Nancy, Rose, Don't you bake all your bread at Mr. Clinton's? Nancy: Every bit, indeed! Rose. How do you manage to get barm, it's very scarce, and I believe you have no brewery near you? Nancy, Why then, I'll tell you that; for my mistress never wants barm, and I have so often made the mixture by her directions, that I can't but remember it She gets a quart of good barm, and then she boils flour and water together very well, till it is a nice, smooth, thin- nish paste; when that is about blood 46 warm, she mixes the barm witli it, and puts all together into a vessel large enough to let it work, and keeps it in a place neither hot nor cold, and covers the vessel close. Rose. And how much of that works the bread? Nancy. At fii'st very little more than if it was all barm, but it takes more time to rise the flour. Every few days add as much more paste, and you may do so for a month, or more, in mild weather, till the strength of the barm is gone. But, according as you add paste, it will take more and more of the mixture to rise the flour. A pint of the strongest, left in a spunge, like bat- ter, for some hours, does a stone of flour. If vou leave it all nic-ht, let the batter be the thicker. After you work the bread, leave it a few hours more. Bo.se, Well, Tm oblisred to you: 47 this may be of use sometime or other to me. Najicy. I don't like the trouble of it, if I could help it. I'd rather put in a good dash of barm at once, to hurry up the bread; but my mistress M'-on't allow that, she says it makes the bread bitter, and wastes the barm. Rose, Sure you are happy to have such a good liousekeeper for a mistress, especially if she be good- humoured, which I believe good housekeepers often are, because they time business for themselves and their servants, and things go on so regular that there is no room for fretting. Nanci/. Indeed I'll never deny it, my mistress is a very quiet wo- man, and pleasant to live with, if she was not so particular, for every thing must be put in its place, and the pots and saucepans all cleaned 48 before they are put by, which she was liard enough set to make me do, but she told me so often how much trouble it would save myself not to have to clean a vessel when I wanted to use it, that I found at last it was the best way, and indeed she insisted that it should be done. But I could not tell you all her exactness and odd ways, if I was talking till to morrow morning. Rose, You have told me no odd ways yet; I think you have nothing to complain of. When a thing is in its place one know^s w^here to find it, but a great deal of time is spent looking for things w^hich are thrown out of one's hand in a hurry, and sure no tidy servant Avould lay by her pots and saucepans dirty. Nancif. O then, she has odd ways, and very disagreeable ways. Not a drop of tea w^ ill she give me, barring Sunday evenings, and washing days> 49 and other servants in the town get it morning and evening, as duly as morning and evening come. Rose, I think you are very much obliged to your mistress for not giv- ing you such a bad fashion. What would you do in a house of your own? you could not afford to drink tea, and you would be hankering after it, when you got the way of it. Nancy. Say what you will, I in- tend to have tea when I'm in a house of my own, and no thanks to any one. Then, that's not all; my mis- tress refused to let me sit up at a neighour's wake. She gave me leave to sit an hour there in the afternoon, and she let me go to the burial; but she would not hear of my sitting up; and she preached an hour to me about it, and she said it was a shame to the nation to have diversion at wakes. Now I would not give a pin to go except at night, for then the D 50 fun o'oes on ; and It has vexed me so, that I intend to give my mistress warning when my quarter is u]), for now I have learned a deal, I can get a better place, where I can have more liberty. Rose, You may get higher wages, but take my advice, and stay with your Q-ood mistress. She is a con- siderate woman, I am sure, and will raise your wages, or make you amends some way or other, if you stay with }ier, and please her; and your having more libertv will not make vou more comfortable. Besides, * a roll- ing stone gathers no moss;' and a servant is thought nothing about, that leaves her places at every hand's turn. You don't know what a poor life servants have in some grand families, where their mistress knows nothino- about them. Stay where you are, and content yourself. 51 DIALOGUE X. SERVITUDE. Nancy^ Rose. Nancx/, So, Rose, we have met again! are you in the same place still? Rose, Yes, Nancy, I don't like changing. Nancy. Indeed, I believe you are in the right of it. I wish I had taken your advice, for I have changed for the worse; though I have high wages, and tea constantly, I'm not so happy as when I was with my old mistress. I think, putting every thing together, I had as much li- berty with her, and a great deal less to do, D 2 ^»«^j„^^^m!«0«! 52 Rose. I thought you complained of being closely kept to work. Nancy, Ay, but when my work was done in her house, it was done; but here there is no end to my work. There, if I was after washing the parlour'^, or the stairs, all the family took care not to dirt them. Indeed my master has taken off his shoes, when the weather was slobbery^ to go up stairs; but here the least child in the house, ayj the dog itself, will tramp all over the clean boards, and make a show of them in an hour'\ Rose. Are there no grown up children to mind the little ones, and keep them from dirtying the place? Nancy. There is a young miss, as pert and saucy as you please, that says, what am I for, but to clean the house? and while I am scouring out the parlour, will send me up stairs for her pocket-handkerchief, while she sits crying over a story book. 53 It would be fitter for her to have some compassion for a poor servant that's worried off her legs, waiting upon her; for she takes more attend- ance than her mother does, and won't stir a finger to help me, if I Avas dying of fatigue. Rose. I reallv wonder how she can be so hard-hearted, and incon- siderate. She could save you a great deal of work, without doing much herself. Nancy, She might indeed; and her mother ought to make her do it. Now my old mistress made one of her biggest daughters always help me to make the beds, turn about; and of a washing day they both made them, and swept the stairs, and the parlour, and dusted the fur- niture, and one of them always laid the cloth for dinner and supper; and because they were in a middling way, and kept but one girl, when j4 there .was company I was never asked to go into the parlour; but Miss Betsy, or Miss Jane, whose ever turn it was, waited upon the com- pany, and eat her dinner after they were done'', and all so pleasant and good-humoured, and always strove to save me trouble, and were so kind to me when I was sick ! Oh, I was a fool to leave them ! licse. Yin sorrv you did. But you must only make the best of it now, for fear if you change you should do worse. Nanc]/. Worse is needless; but, as you say, I v\ill strive to weather it out. 55 DIALOGUE XL SERVITUDE, JVancy, Rose. Nancy. Rose, I'll tell you what. I have all the mind in the world to go to London. Rose. To London! bless me! what business have you there? Nancy. To get a service. Katty Byrne told me it was the finest place in the world to make one's fortune in; and servants live so well, and dress so fine, that they are often taken for their mistresses, for they get such good wages, that they can have nice clothes, and save money too. Rose. I believe servants in Enjr- land get good wages, sure enough ; 56 but then they arc expected to earn them well, to know their business thoroughly, and not only know it, but do it. Nancy. Sure I'm young, and strong, and healthy, and able to work; and I learned a good deal from mv mistress at Greenfield. Ah now, Rose, come along with me yourself, you are so tidy, and so handy, you would soon get a place. Paul Cranny and Dan Toole are go- ing to work at the hay in England; sober, staid men, and Dan is my own cousin, and they will take care of us till we get over; and a little matter will bring us to London, and Dan's wife has an aunt there, that would take us in till we get places. Rose, No\v% dear Nancy, don't think I like to be alwavs contradict- ing you, hut I must tell you this is a very wild scheme, and I beg you won't think any more of it. As to 51 me, I would not go on any account. Don't you remember poor Polly Tierney ? Nancy, Ay, she that came sick from England, to die with her peo- ple. Rose. She was a clever, well- handed girr^ and had lived in good places in Dublin. Then nothing would serve her but to try her for- tune in London; but, she that did so well at home, could not get a place there, for a long time; till her money was spent, and most of her little clothes sold; and then she hired in such a place as she would not have thought of in her own country, where she was kept close to hard work, harder than she was used to; and the slavery, and the fretting, and the want of fresh air, soon knocked up poor Polly; and when she had got just money to bring her D 5 58 liome, she came; and ah, poor tiling! we were very sorry to see her so cut down. Nancij. But wliy could not she get a better place, if she was so well handed ? Rose. I'll tell vou that. — Because 4.' she came from Ireland. Nancy. That is very ill natured of the English people; we are as good as themselves. Rose. I don't think it is ill na- ture; and really as to servants, there are very few of us as good as them. Nancy. And why not? Rose. Because the English poor people bring up their children to work at something or other, from the time they are able to do any thing; and work is no hardship to them, and their minds are bent upon it; and you know, Nancy, it is not so here; the children are let to run about doing nothing, at an age when 59 English clilklren would earn enough to support themselves; and then they get such an idle hahit, that they can seldom settle like them, to mind their business; and tlien again, the English are so cleanly: why I am told they wash their pigs once a week, and the pigs thrive much bet- ter for it. Now, you know, it is not so in Ireland, where a clean person is wondered at, and praised, as if it was a merit, what should be natural for every one to do; that is against an Irish servant: and the Eno-jish have a notion, too, that the children here are not enough discouraged from taking what don't belong to them, and that this disposition grows up with them; and I am sure if they think so, it is no wonder that they do not like to have any thing to do with us. So where is the use of going so far, and spunging on a stranger to maintain, one? 60 Nancy, Vm sure Nelly Toole's aunt would be glad to see any one from her own country, and would make us kindly welcome. Rose. May be she might. But London is a dear place to live in, and people are hard enough put to it to maintain their own families, and sure it would be a shame to live upon them. But what is worst of all, and I am sure will put the notion of going thereout of your head, is the danp-er I hear there is of fall in 2: into bad hands, through snares laid for young women, who have no one to protect them, and who are driven to such distress for want of a place, that they don't care what they do at last. Nancy. O Rose, you terrify me! I'm off this notion entirely", and I'll never stir out of Ireland, while I have breath in my body. 61 DIALOGUE XII. FIDELITY. Nancy, Rose, Nancy. After all, Rose, it is a troublesome world we live in, I am almost tired of it. Rose. You are too young, Nancy, to be tired of the world already; your friends all well about you, and you, with health and strength, earn- ing your bread decently and ho- nestly. Nancy. It is this earning I am tired of. I wish I could get an easy place, or that I could afford to live at home; for what is a servant thought of, or Avhat can they ex- pect? 62 Rose. I am sure an honest, dili- p'cnt servant is thou<»'ht a o;reat deal of, and may expect a great deal of comfort. Sure it was only last week that we went to poor old Nanny M' Conaughty's burial, and what a fine burial she had; her master and mistress, and their children, walking after the coffin, and the neighbours praising her honesty, and saying how well she had served the family forty years! Her master was from home when she died, and I heard that he cried down tears when he came into his house, and found she had departed a little before. She came young into his family, and had a pretty hard work. She had an offer to leave that place, and go to a grander, where she would only be asked to take care of the dairy, for she managed milk and butter mighty well, and get higher wages; but she would not hear to it. '3 Nancy, I hope she told her mis- tress of the ofier, and got her wages raised. Rose. No, not one word, but went on, Avorking as before, contented with her wages, and satisfied with her work; she believed her mistress gave her what she could afford, and she scorned to take an advantage of any one. The longer she lived in the family, the more the};^ knew her goodness, and the more respect they showed her. Nancy, But when she grew old did not she wish to be in a place of her own? Rose, She could not be better off in any place; she had every thing she wanted, and more than she thought she wanted. Nanny's little arm chair stood bv the kitchen fire, her little mug of porter on the hob, if she was weak, and not a servant but should do her bidding as soon as 64 the mistress's; and nothing done in the house without consulting Nanny. Kancy. She did not do much, though, herself I suppose. Rose. She was not asked to do any thing, hut Nanny could not live without doing. She kept the keys, and was very nice who she trusted with them. She took care of the broken meat, and asked her mistress's leave to give it away as she thought proper, without troubling her for di- rections; for without getting leave, she thought it would not be right to give it away. Her mistress said she might do any thing she pleased, and I am sure she would have trusted her life in her hands, and all she was worth in the world. I knew a good deal about her, for my cousin Nessy lived servant there, and my aunt nurse-tended her in her illness. For the matter of that, all the family nurse-tended her, and the young 65 ladies attended her like their mother as long as she was ill; and old and feeble as she was, they cried as if their hearts would break after her. Na7icy. Ah that was an old fa- shioned family, but genteel people don't set such store by their old ser- vants. Rose, Goodnatured, sensible peo- ple, will always set store by a faith- ful servant. Sure you have seen Mr, and Mrs. Beaumont drive by in their curricle; where would you see so genteel a couple? My master's fa- mily and theirs have great resort to one another; and I knew their old steward William very well, a fine, portly, hale, old man, wnth white hair, and red cheeks. He had lived with ]\lr. Beaumont's father, and grandfather, and was like a king over the workmen and servants, and was very strict with them. For all that they loved him, because he was so 66 just between them and their master; and when he could not stand out with them as usual, he gave orders what should be done; and he would check the master himself, if things went astray. Nancy, And would such a fine gentleman bear to be checked by him? Rose. Ay, w^ould he; for he Avas always used to look up to old Wil- liam's judgment, and he knew he had his interest at heart. And when poor William lay on his deathbed, his master brought his own little children to take leave of their old friend. And his mistress, though she was a beautiful nice young wo- man, was by him when he was dying. And he had a fine burial too! for who deserves more respect than a faithful servant? 67 DIALOGUE XIIL BENEVOLENCE. Nancij, Rose. Nancy. I suppose, Rose, you have more to do now; for I hear there is a lad}^ come to lodge with your mis- tress. Rose. I don't find that makes me have much more to do; she is such a considerate, regular ])ody, and she is so good, and so charitahle besides, that if she made work for me, I would not mind it. Nancy, I suppose she is a grand lady, and very rich. Rose, No, she is neither grand nor rich, though a very genteel, fine spoken gentlewoman; but she helps the poor more than many do, who 68 have a great deal of money; and you would wonder at all the pretty ways she has of doing it. Nancy. How can she help the* poor, if she is not rich? Rose, Why then, I'll tell you. As she has not a family to mind, or any one to work for hut herself, she has a great deal of time to spare, and any little bits of silk or calico, that she has herself, or can get from her ac- quaintance, she makes them into pin- cushions, needle books, thread cases, and such like; and there is a poor widow woman, who can hardly keep life in her, and was going out to beg in her old age: then what does this good lady do, but she raised a little money among her friends, bou.:ht poor Norah a basket, and a little matter of threads and tapes, a few sheets of pins, and little things that way; and she gives her all these things she makes, to sell for herself; 69 and sometimes she draws pretty pic- tures, and puts nice coloured paper round them, like a frame, and gives them to Norah too; and she does something* else that people wonder at most of all. Najicy. O what's that? Rose. Why she saves all the wax she gets on her letters, and she gets a great deal of letters, and she gets her friends to do the same; and this is given to old Norah, and she picks off the paper, and melts the wax in a little grisset, and has an iron shape to run it into; and when it is cold, it is as fair a stick of sealing wax as ever you saw, and she gets sixpence a stick for it; and this, and every thing else, is such a help to her, that she lives pretty comfortable in her cabin now. Nancy. Well, this is very won- derful ! why if all the ladies did this 70 way, there would be no beggars at all. Rose, She buys wool too, and em- ploys poor women to spin it; then she reads a great deal, and she would think herself idle if she did not knit at the same time, and so she knits a power of good warm stockings for poor old creatures ; and she helps many families by giving them flax to spin, and gets linen made; and what she don't use herself, her friends are very glad to buy from her. Nancif. Why, she makes a slave of herself^'. Rose. Not at all, she seems to have more time to walk, or divert herself in the garden, than a lady that lives next door to us, who spends so many hours at her glass, dressing herself, and lying in bed, that when she calls in to pay a morn- ing visit she complains how hurried 71 ^nd tired she is, and I am sure I wonder with what, though she looks weary and listless; while our good lodger always looks so fresh, and so happy, and every one loves and re- spects her; yet she is no way proud, but will speak as civil to a poor body as to a rich, and always says ^ if you please,' when she asks to have any thing done for her. O, it would be a happy world, if all the quality were like her. ir: DIALOGUE XIV. HOUSEKEEPING. 77 w, Jem. Tim, Is it true, Jem, that you arc going to be married? Jem. By going to be married, do you mean immediately? Tim. Yes, immediately! and why not? — you are past three and twenty, and should be thinkino; of a wife. Jem. So I am, Tim; and that is the reason I am not going to marry immediately. Tim. Well now, that is mighty strange. Jem. Not at all strange, if you consider how serious a thing mar- riage is, and how many cares and 73 duties a man draws down upon him- self by marrying. Tim, If you think so much about it, I am afraid it's long before you'll be a husband. Jem. The length of time will en- tirel}^ depend upon my being able to save up money to buy a few ne- cessaries. Tiin. Why what more do you want than a cabin and a potato gar- den? and those you can get tVem Mr. Nesbit for four guineas a year, and the grazing of a cow for four gui- neas more. Jem, Do you mean one of the cabins on the hill, that have no chimney? — I wouUl not live in one of them, if I got it for nothing! What^ would you advise me to marry to smoke-dry my wife? Tim. (), as good as you have lived and died in a cabin without a chim- ney. , E 74 Je^)n. That may be, but I will ne- ver take a house without one. But suppose 1 had the cabin, must not I have some little articles of furni- ture to put into it? Tim. Furniture! — dear me! — fur- niture! — what, I suppose you got these dainty notions when you went to see your uncle last year, near Co- Icraine; those people in the North are plaguy nice. Jem. Just as nice, a*nd no more, as I am myself — if you call it nicety to wish for a bedstead to raise one up from the floor, a straw bed in coarse sacking, and a warm pair of blankets. Tim. A man and his M'ife may be very comfortable on the floor, by the side of the fire; a few stones will keep in the straw, as well as the sacking; and as to blankets, sure one will do, along with the big coat about one's feet. 15 Jem, And so you would advise me to marry, and bring my wife home to a bed on the floor, with my big coat about her feet? — Why sure, Tim, you can't be in earnest? If I bought a sick sow at the fair, I might bring her home to such a place; but my wife I would wiaii to show more re- spect to. Tim, But if your wife be satisfied, what need you bother yourself about the matter? Jem. The girl I intend to marry would not be satisfied with such ac- commodation, nor would I wish that slie should; sh.e could neither be a fit companion for myself, nor a use- ful mother to my children. Tim, What, I suppose she must have a dresser to put her crockery ware on? Jem. Yes, and a chest for our clothes, and a cupboard, and some chairs, and a table: in short, every E 2 76 thin!! necessary for a family that don't wish to live like the siivages. Tim. And how do the savages live? Jem. Why, in a mud hovel with- out a chimney; the parents and chil- dren all y^ig together, on the same w^isp — the father goes out to look for food, an* the litter: and Avhen the leaves are fallino- make the children sweep them into little licaps, and bring them into tlie sty too; and you can hardly believe what a fine heap of manure you will get in a short time, to add to the cleanings of the cow house. Tim, Jem, III take vour advice; and indeed I was laid out to make a stv""; Nancy has not let me rest 14i about it, since the pig tore o\ir thing's in the pot; and Rose advised her not to let it run loose about the Avorld any more. Jem, It's a thing, Tim^ you'll ne- ver repent of doing. Tim. But you have a way of planting your garden, to niake it hold more than other people's. Jem, If you want to know my way, I'll tell you. I set out the early York cabbage plants far enough from each other, to let a bean be planted between; now the beau don't take up much room, and don't hurt the plants. I strive to get the best kind of potatoes, and suit each sort to the proper season ; which, by having the command of a little manure, I can do. At the edges of my early po^ tato ridges, I plant green curled bore- cole; and when the potatoes are dug out, the borecole grows large, and gives fine greens for winter, 142 The later potatoes may have latei borecole plants, or single gray peas, put at their edges; and by this way the ground is made the most of. Be- side this you sec, I have my little plots of bcan3 and pease, and my beds of turnips, carrots, parsneps, and onions; and the trimmings of these, and the trimmings of the cabbage, arc thrown to the pig; and what she don't eat makes more manure. You see, too, that I have rape plants to put down, when the other crops are taken off; for they are hardy, and stand the winter, and cold spring; and their sprouts are nice greens for ourselves, or the cow, or pig. About two pennyworth of rape seed, to get it good, gives me iive hundred, or from that to a thousand plants; and this I sow about July, in a small spot of ground, and transplant as I want them. Tinu Well, long life to you, Jem! 14 r» but why do you waste your time nmkin:^ a summer house? Jtm. Indeed, Tim, I have no time to spare for sucli things, but I did not say against my little boys nail- ing these sticks together, and giving them a pretty shape; and the girls put down French beans about them, and thev run up amono- the sticks, and blossom, and look exceedingly pretty; and, to be sure, the children are proud enough of it; and I can't say but I take some pride out of it too. Any way I am glad they can divert themselves with what is both pretty, and of use, instead of doing mischief; for the little pco{)le must be doing, and if one can put them in the way of doing good, we shall all be srlad of it after\\'ard. 144 DIALOGUE XXVII. THE DAIRY. Na7icy, Rose. Nancy. What a pretty little place you have to keep your milk in! how clean it is! and truly a window like a dairy belonging to quality, with lattice ! Rose. You know we must let in air.; and the cat would come in, if we hadn't this on the window. JSfanci/. Weary cats they are^"! not a day of her life but the cat is at my little pan of milk; and indeed the children dip their fnigers in it; so that, though our cow is very good, the churning is small enough. Sometimes I lock up our milk and 14o butter ill the cupboard, but it gets a tack there ^', so I mostly keep it in the room window. Rose. I would advise vou to g-et a little place built up for your milk and butter: it will be worth your while to do it. When it's done, it won't be to do again; and your milk and butter w^ill soon pay for it. IT 146 DIALOGUE XXVllL THE CUPBOARD. ' JVcuicj/, Rose. jVa?ici/. Let nie peep in at your cupboard, that I may settle my own like it when I go home. Rose. You are vcrv welcome, Nancy, but there is not much to be seen in it. Nancy. Why you have the very things you bought when you were married, that I got the same of; mine arc oonc lono- a^o. Ikit what's in all these paper bags hanging on these nails stuck in the inside of the cup- board door? Rose. One has camomile flowers; another has red rose leaves; that has 147 sage leaves; and this marigolds; and that other one elder flowers. Nanci/, And what do you do with them all? Rosc> Camomile tea is a fine thing for a weakly person to take a cup of, cold, in the morning; and red rose tea, for a sore throat. You know it is not easy always to get sage in winter, for hogs puddings; and marigolds are good on a sup of broth; and elder flowers make a fme cooling stupe. Nancy. And what's in the cms- Iceens^'', with paper tied so carefully over them ? Hose. Different thino-s; one has tar and sheep's suet, for sores; aho] ther, ointment of marshmallows, for pains; and that, ointment of roses, for blisters with the sun, or when the chilchcn get a fall ; and — Nancy. I have heard enough of N'our ointments — one would think H 2 us you kept an apothecary's shop; sure you can't want all these things! R€se, No, we seldom want them; but one likes to have them, and not be going to the quality houses to look for every thing; and it is plea- sant to have it in one's power to oblige a neighbour. Nancy, I wonder you take up your time picking these flowers. Rose. I set the children to pick them; they may as well do that as other things. I keep them doing Komcthini;*. Najuy. Now I think of it, may be you might have a bit of drawing plaster. Rose. I have, at your service. Nancy. Long life to you, after all! you're as ^ood in the nei^^hbour- hood as many a lady. Is it possible that you nuulc this plaster yourself! Rose, O ves. I melt a little hees wax and hog's lard together, and put 14.^ in a little honey, or turpentine, if I have it convenient; and it makes a very good plaster. Nanci/, I thought you sold your honey and wax. Rose, Not all. I keep some for my own use. Nancy. Sure the children would gobble up the honey 1 Rose, I take care that thev shan't. I keep it fpr a medicine; there's ne- ver a finer thing for the little cougks children often have, than a little ho- ney and water, and a sprig of rose- mary, boiled toL>:cther; take out the Sprig, skim it, and put a little vine- gar to it, and give a teaspoon ful now and then. And if you want to give rhubarb, or any powders to a child, it is so casv *'*i^'cn mixed in honcv: and for a burn, or a scald, it is very good. Nanci/, But where do you get hog's lard? 150 Rose. "VVe kill a pig every winter, and I render some of the leaf lard to lay by, and some I put in my hog's puddings. The readyings I render too; that does for my ointments, and such like. The best lard does instead of butter in many ways, and saves the butter in the dear time. Nci7icu. Don't vou season vour lard? Rose. No. I render it into a clean crock, and cover it from the dust; and it keeps longer than if it was seasoned. A little of it in caulcannon is very good^'; and I could not tell vou all tlie advantaQ-e I find in having ir by me. 151 DIALOGUE XXIX< , COOKERY '\ Rose J Nancy. Rose, I HAVE been told liow to make, several good dishes, by a cha- ritable lady, who sometimes calls, and sits awhile in our cabin; so \\'e can have the taste of meat oftener than we used, and at less cost; I like you should know them too. Nancjj. I'm obliged to you. I hope they're not troublesome. Rose. One is about a pound of beef, a con pie of onions, four or five turnips, about a quarter of a pound of rice, some parsley, thyme, and sa- vory, pepper, and salt. Cut the beef iu slices, and put all together down in a gallon, of water; and when it 1.52 has boiled awhile take up the beef, and cut it smaller. In all it takes about two hours to boil, on a slo\r fire. You may put a little oatmeal and potatoes to it. Nanc)j. I believe it would eat well. What else did she teli you? Rose, She bid me make another dish this way. Half a pound of beef, mutton, or pork, cut into small slices, half a pint of pease, four turnips sli- ced, six potatoes, cut very small, two onions, and seven pints of w^ater. Boil that very slow, for two hours and a half. Then tliicken it with a quarter of a pound of oatmeal; and boil it a quarter of an hour longer, stirring it all the time; then season it with pepper and salt. Najicif. Sure one might as well make broth of the meat. Rose. How little a sup of broth could you make of half a pound of meat? But managing this way, gives 153 the family a fine dinner. The Lady told me how to make a haggis too. Nancy, What's that? Ro^c. A special good dish, tlie Scotch are very fond of. You must clean the stomach of a sheep tho- roughly; parboil the pluck; grate half the liver, half the liver is enough to put in; mince the pluck small, with three quarters of a pound of suet. Eoil a few onions for live mi- nutes, tlien shred them small, and mix them and two handfuls of oat- meal, well dried, with, the meat, and* season it with pepper an.d salt. Put all into tiie sheep's s^tomach, with one quart of the water in which the pluck, was boiled. Sew it up close, and put it on. the fire in a pot of cold- water. But you must often pierce it with a bodkin, or large needle, or it will be apt to burst. It takes t\\ o- hours boiling.. Nancy,, Now and then I get a M 5 154 sheep's head, and pluck; I boil the pliick^ then mince it small, and thicken some of the broth it was boiled in^ witli flour and butter; sea- son it, and put the hash in it; but I am so hobbled for want of another pot, that I can't have it as comfort- able, and as hot, as it has a right to be. Rose. Do get a pot at the next fair: and till vou do, I'll lend vou one of mine, that you may have your bit hot. That is a good dish yoii have mentioned, but tlie liaggis goes far- ther, and you have the head for broth. Nancy, I'm greatly obliged to you; and I'll take care of your pot, and put it out of the way of the pig* Rose. O do, Nancy; and now try one of those dislics soon. You can't think how good they are. Nancj/. I will indeed. Well! you would live where another would starve! Vd5 DIALOGUE XXX. FALSE REPORT, AND SLANDER.. Nanci/, Rose. Nanci/> My dear gossip, Rose, we live in a horrid bad neighbour- hood; for my part I wish I was a- liundred miles off, so I was near you. Rose. What ails you. at the neigh- bourhood? I never heard you fault it before. Nancij, One can't say a word' but it must be come over again and again, and harm made of it;r— I am sure I meant no liarm, and yet only for a little silly talk, I am brought into such trouble, that I don't know what will be the end of it. Rose, I don't understand you,- 156 Nancy. Did not you hear of the summons that was sent me? Rose. Iiuleed, I did not hear one Avoid about it. Naiicy. O no, you hear notliing^ for vou never sit half an hour in a neighbour's cabin, barring they are sick. If you wqyq a little more like other people, you might take my part now. Rose. Really I have so much to do, that I cannot go to a^k my neigh- bours how they are, as often, may- be, as I ought; but when I know they are well, I don't think it signi- fies, for they know I am busy, and that I wish them well. But how can my going out be of use to you? Ndncif, Because you would liave- licard the report of Kitty Costelio, and vou could sav it was- not 1 iii- vented it, and vou wouhl be be- lievcd. Rose. I never heard a report of 157 the girl, and I liope no one invented any thing bad of her, for she did not deserve it. Nanciji, I am sure I have no spite to Kitty, and it is only a little chat over Noragli Carty's fire, that has made all this rout and botheration, Kitty came home, you know, last Candlemas, to see her people, from her service. Rose. I know she did, and a good clever girl she was, only a little too dressy. Nancy. Ay, that was the thing, and among the rest of her fine clothes she had a shawl, a very pretty straw colour, with a crimson border; and she had a nice giughain wrapper, which we thought could not be got under three and sixpence a yard. Now these two things in particular set the neighbours a talking; for Miss Kealc had four shawls stole out of her shop the fair day, a little be- 158 fore Kitty came; and we thought they were just the pattern of licrs. Kitty, to be sure, was not here at the fair, nor if she was, we would not say she stole it; but there was a dealing woman from her place at the fiiir, and in the shop. I never heard that Miss Neale suspected her; but who ever heard Miss Neale lay a hard word on any one? And we were all so sorry for her loss, that when we saw the shawl on Kitty, we were sure the dealer gave her a bargain of it, after stealing it from Miss Neale. Rose. Sure you could not say the woman stole it! Nancy. No, but we were sure and certain it was one of those shawls was upon Kitty; — well, but that was not Kitty's fault;: — but one thing brought on anotlier; and there was the fine wrapper! we were sure that belonged to one of the young ladies at Mount Lofty, and that Kitty had. 1j9 taken it unknown to her, just to cut a dasli amono' her old neio'hbours, and that she would wash it, and lay it bv, for certain; but we thouo-ht she should nat meddle with her young ladies clothes, abusing, and. wearing them out. Rose, If she did that, she was not an honest servant. And why should you think she would do such a wrong thing? why Avould you take away the character of a poor girl, that was earning her bread? you don't know but her lady gave the wrapper ta Kitty. Nancy, We thought it was too* good to give awa}-, far it had not a brack in it. But I wisli we had let her, and her shawl,, and her wrapper alone! And yet why should all this- trouble fall upon me? I did not in- vent lies of Kitty; I just mentioned eur remarks ta Biddy Walsh, and one or tv>'0 more, that had a great 160 regard for her, and so liavc we all". Now a summons is come for me, to go before Captain ]\Jyers, to prove what I said against the dealing wo- man and Kitty. Tim is going mad with me; and Miss Ncale sent for me, and asked me why I made use of her name, or why 1 said that the dealing" woman stole her shawls? I said it was because I was her well- wisher, and could not bear to see her wronged. Upon that, she desired me never to meddle with her busi- ness aoain. She believed the wo- man was very honest; and she had been a good customer^ and now she did not know would she ever come into her shop agam, after such are- port being raised. She told me that the shawls were quite a diiferent pattern and price from Kitty's. And she asked me how I would like^ when I was a young girl at service, and came to sec my people, to be torn to pieces, this way, by my old neighbours? And she said it would have been kinder, if we thought the girl was wearing her lady's clothes, to ask her about it, and advise her against the like, in a private way, than to make a talk of it; but Kitty had been at her shop, trying to matcli the gingham, to make it up again, for the body and sleeves were great- ly worn, though, being a well hand- ed girl, she had patched it neatly; and she told Miss Neale, that her young lady had made her a present of it, that she need not buy a gown to come home in, but bring a little money to her mother. Rose, Well, dear Nancy, I hope this will be a warning to you. I am sure none of you would wish to do Kitty any harm; you know her cha- racter is her fortune; nor to hurt the poor dealing woman, who travels far arid near, many a weary journey, 16^ carrying a heavy pack, to inaintaiii her fatherless children in honesty, and a little decency. And sure if the greatest lord or lady in the land lose their character, who cares a pin about them after? and to a poor body who has nothing else to depend on, it is tlie cruellest thing to take theirs- away. Howeyer, don't fret, Nancy, no one that knows you thinks you have a bad heart; so I hope you will get off better than you expect; and do call and tell me as you are coining back. 163 DIALOGUE XXXI. ^^• I S E RECOLLECTIONS. Rose, Nanci/. Rose, I AM glad to see you come back with such a pleasant counte- nance; but how did you come off? for though I would not say so to you before you went, I hear the Captain is a very strict man, and says that tongues must be punished, that make too free with their neighbours, as well as hands. Nancy, O, it is I that was all of a tremble when the time came for me to go, and sure enough I got such a fright, that I hope I will never be in such a scrape again. I thought if this had not happened, or if it could 1G4 be undone, that I would be the hap- piest creature on Earth. Rose. I long to know how it ended; do tell me! Nancy. My good Tim! O, sure I will always strive to do well for him and for his children! — my good Tim, though he was mad with me at first, when the summons came, yet he went every foot of the way to Kitty, and the dealer, and he spoke so sen- sibly to them, and made so many apologies, and was so civil, that he got them to make it up. Poor Kitty readily passed it over; but the deal- er was very stiff for a long time, and, as Tim said, it was no wonder she should. So when we went to Cap- tain ]\Iyers, we told him it was made up; and the good gentleman advised mc a great deal, and sent me home again. Rose. I am rejoiced it is so well over. \65 Naiici/, Ah, it is you, Rose, thut never lets your tongue bring you into trouble ! and though every neigh- bour in the parish would tell their troubles to you, and their secrets, if you had time to hear them, and though you might make a great deal of mischief, if you had a mind, yet no one can ever say you carried a story from one to another. Rose. I am sure I deserve no praise for not being a mischiefma- kcr. And, indeed, though I would not be unmannerly, I had rather my neighbours would not tell me their troubles, except I could do them good; and I never desire to hear a secret. Najici/, It's what I wonder at, Rose, that you hear so little of what is doing about you, that Stephen Byrne was buying the wedding clothes, before you knew he was courting Ectty Cranny; and Winnj 166 Ryan's ])laid calico was almost uoiii out, before you ever took notice of it. Rose, Stephen was no great ac- quaintance of mine, and I only knew Betty by eyesight, so that if I heard of their courting, I forgot it. And what was Winny's plaid calico to me? I have a 2:reat deal to think of about my own little family, and I am not so quick at hearing news, nor so sharp in minding what people have on them, as many are. Nancy, Yet, for all that, you are a o'ood warrant to take notice of anv tidy contrivance in a house' ', and of the best way of cutting out a gown, or a little boy's trowsers, or any thing in that line. And vou can remember your mother's stories about the good old people well enough, and the way people took to keep a house over their heads in hones tv, when thcv were struggling with the work!. 167 Ay, and you were sharp enough, though an innocent young girl, when Terry Magrath woukl fain keep company with you, and sent you fine messages, and begged to say one word to you; but you would not hearken to him at all, at all; and when we told you he could do no liarm by speaking to you, you made answer, that Terry knew your mind well enough, and that when a girl did not intend to accept a young man, she had no right to keep him company. Rose, O, Nancy, I was afraid to depend upon myself; and I did not know how his fine speeches might work upon me. Nancy. Sure you did not like a ])one in Terry Magrath's skin; and none of your friends liked him for you either. Rose, For all that, one cannot be sure of escaping danger, except by not going in the way of it; and I had the example before my eyes of poor Susy Galla2:her, that married Kit Owens, tliat she hated of all men liv- ing, till she was such a fool as to hearken to his nonsense; and tlien she grew all as fond of him, and run off with him, in spite of father or mother; and indeed she had better have staid at home. Nayicy. Well, you always took notice of what was worth minding, and of nothing else; and how" soon you got in the way of making the good dishes you heard of. Til go this minute, and make one of your stews for Tim's dinner. \69 DIALOGUE XXXII. COOKERY. Nancy, Rose, Na7icij. We are just after dining off the nice stew that you showed me hov\^ to make; and now can you tell me any thing else, for I am so light and happy, after rising out of that scrape, and so thankful to Tim, that I can do any thing now. Rose. Well, Nancy, these pease that you think so little about, make a fine dish, when they are too old for boiling. Nancy. I thought pease were ne* ver fit to eat after they were turning' their colour. Rose, Then I assure you they I 170 arc. Take two quarts of old pease, and stc'A^ them in four quarts of wa- ter, on a slow fire, for two hours. Take them up then, and put to them a little pepper, salt, and onion; and also throw in hits of meat, cither fresh or salt; if you have not meat, a little hutter rolled in flour, or jiice lard w ill do instead. Then stew half an hour longer. It is verv 2:ood; and then vou have it when the new potatoes are scarce; for you know one don't like to run over the rid<>:c too fast, hut to spare them to grow as lono' as one can. There is also another way of drcsbiuLi; pease and hcans when they are old; first, hy soaking* in water for twentv four liours; then put them into a ju;^', or pitcher, which \\ ill hold them, and holda hit of fat hacon too, or a pii?fs fool, taken out of the pickle, with the salt sticking to it. The meat is put at top, and a piece of greasy 171 brown paper tied over the pitcher. At niglit, put it on the hearth, and turn a pot over it; or, put it in a pot, and leave in the fire, and hang it hio-h over the fire. In the mornins: it is sufficiently done; and keep it on the hearth, hot, till dinner, uhcn the meat will be tender, and the juice got among the pease and beans: then it is eat with spoons. The common gray pease, and the small horse beans, are what answer best for this dish; some put a few leeks, or onions cut small, and a little pepper, into the pitcher, before it is baked. And I find oreat nse in mv French beans, which you thought I was very conceited for sowing in my little crarden. Instead of eatino; them as the quality do, pods and all, when they are } oung, and but an insipid dish, I let them grow till the beans are ripe, then shell them, and lav them by. Thcv are verv "'ood and 172 nourishing, particularly when you're nursing, boiled with a bit of butter, or hird, and some herbs chopped through it, or even without the herbs; and thev are very nice under a bit of bacon, and will keep all the winter. I learned this of Mr. Browne's French cook. Nancy. Ay, Rose, you are always ready and willing to learn, and ma- naging and saving every thing; and yet you arc not stingy, but you are a good warrant to share with a neighbour, or give a bit to a poor traveller. Rose. It's by saving, and not wasting any thing, that poor people are able to share their bit with a friend, or with a poor fellow-crea- ture. There's a line wMy of making soup, and I believe next winter, when I can get a beef's head, 111 make it of a Saturday, and sell to the neighbours. A pint of it, and 173 a bit of meat, will give a man hie dinner. Nancy. Do, Rose, dear, I am sure Tim will be glad to buy it; and then I need not be slaving myself of a Sunday, dressing his dinner. Rose. I'll tell you how to make it, whether you will buy it or not. It's half a beef's head put down in about twenty gallons of water, with half a stone of potatoes, a good hand- ful of onions, and pepper, and salt, with any gardenstuff you like^ or can get. This is boiled till about one third is boiled away, and then you have your comfortable soup. Ncnicy. But where will you get a pot to boil so much in? Rose, My big pot, that I boil my linen and my yarn in, I believe, will do; it will be good use to put it to in the winter. If I had not that, I could begin on a less quantity, in a smaller pot, till my soup would earn 174 a big one for me-'. There's a waj of dressing: }ierrini>s too, that o-ivcs a little variety on a fast day, and makes them go farther. Nancij. How is that? Rose. Put three salt lierrinsfs in a pipkin, fill it with sliced potatoes, and a little water. Put it on a grid- dle., and turn a pot over it, and bake it tliat way; or, I believe, putting it on the warm hearth, when the ashes arc swept out of the way, and cover- ing it with the pot, will do. When 1 happen to have a bit of fresh meat, 1 put the bones into a dish, with some potatoes peeled, or the skin grated of}', and put plenty of water, the potatoes take so much; I make a crust with hog's lard, for it makes it better than butter, put it over the bones and potatoes, bake it under the pot, and you can't think how nice a pie it is. 175 DIALOGUE XXXIII. THE ROOM. Ncmcijj Rose, Nancy. I see you have finished your new room, Rose! it looks very well; and these curtains, that you spun last winter, are very nice. Was it yourself dyed them that pretty green? Rose. It was. Indeed I miglit have coloured them cheaper, but as the stuff was good, and I hope my children will have them after me, I laid out a little more than may be a poor body ought, to make them look well. Nancif. How did you dye them?" Rose, I put one ounce of indigo, 176 gfOLiiid line, to one pound of oil of vitriol, by little and little, constantly stirring it with a stick, and let it stand two or tliree days. Then I had five pounds of fastick boiled for two hours, in ten gallons of water. I mixed the vitriol and Indigo in that, stirring it well over the fire, and addino' as much water as the stuff I wanted to dye could be cle- verly boiled in, and when it was a smart heat, put it in. Nancy., Well, I never trouble myself with curtains. We lie very snug in the chimney corner in win- ter; in summer that's too warm, and we lie in the room; but the straw grows damp and fusty; and Tim threatens^* to get a bedstead for ourselves, and another for the chil- dren. Rose. Do o-et them as soon as vou can, it will be a great deal more comfortable, and more wholesome; 177 your little bed clothes must be rot- ted, and vou will have to s^et new ones the sooner. But, be sure, Nan- cy, spread lime on the floor, under your straw, it will help to keep the damp from you; and change your straw often; and when vou have a bedstead, sew up a coarse ticken, or something that way, to hold the straw, and keep it tidy ; and empty it often, and lill it with fresh straw; and spread lime on the floor, under the bedstead, to prevent the damp from rising up to you. I wish your windows opened. Nancy, I did not care if they did. What bag is that, lianging beside the chest? Rose. That is my rag bag. I put all the parings of my work, and all the rags that are good for nothing into it; and then whenThady the ragman comes, he gives me pins and needles I 5 178 for tlicm; so that I never want to buy any. Nancij, AVcll, I never would re- member to put rags into a bag; I sweep them into the fire. Rose. That's a pity. It's better not to waste anv tliino*. Na?in/. Indeed, Rose, I miglit be jealous of you, only you are so good a neighbour; and though your own plaee is so clean, you never turn up your nose at other people's cabins, nor make remarks; and then it's you that makes the nice sup of gruel" or wlicy, not a taste smoked, for a sick bodv; and makes nice broth for them, when tlie quality sends them a bit of fresh meat; and you are ready to sit up witli a neighbour, or to liclp one to cut out and con- trive. Rose. I only strive to do wliat one neighbour should do for ano- 179 tlier, and my neighbours are all kind to me. Nauci/. They all love you, Rose; but it is little some of them can do for themselves, let alone for any body else. 180 DIALOGUE XXXIV. STARCH. Nancy J Rose. Nanci/. It's what I turned back for, to ask you what was tliat wiiite thing in the big pewter dish, in the garden? Rose. Potato starch. Nancij. Potato starcli ! w liy I was told that it rotted the clothes, and spoiled the colour of them; but your clothes are always white and w hole. Rose. Ncyer believe any one that tells you that; for there is no better starch than potato starch, and it goes a trreat deal farther than the other. Ncrnci/. Do you tell me so? liow is it made? 181 Rose, First, wc must hav^e a la-'o-e grater. Jem made me this out of an old saucepan; he punched holes in it, and nailed it on a board, shaping tliat handle for me to hold it hy, Nanci/. I don't doubt but Tim could make the like, but I have no saucepan, old or new. Rose Suppose you bought half a sheet of tin, I think you mio-ht have the grater for about a shilling; but if it v/as more, its worth going to a little expense for a great saving. When the potatoes are grown to their full size, just oi'ter the digging out, is the time to make the starch, V/ash them clean, grate them into a tub of water. Strain them throuQ-h a sieve, and then through a strainer cloth, and then wash well what stays in the cloth; and let it stand till it settles at the bottom of the tub; pour off the water, and put on fresh^ stirring up the starch from the bot- tom; and do this wlienever you put 182 fresh water to it, wliicli must be two or tlirec times a day, still pouring the mucldv water olf. In a few days it will be sufficiently bleached; then drain the water from it, cut it out, and dry it in the sun. NcDicy. Ah, Rose, it is very trou- blesome! and a little starch does mc, about a pennyworth a week. Rose. Now, consider a little, Nancy, and reckon how much that is in the year. Nanci/. Rose, dear, I hate reckon- ing; reckon for me, for it's you that can do it. Rose. I am often obliged to reck- on, to try if both ends meet; for I liave a mortal dread of going in debt* One penny a week, is four pence a month, and that is four shillings in the year; and four shillings is some- thing to a poor body. Nancy. Ay, indeed, it would stop a gap, if one had all together. Rose. Now a stone of potatoes 1S3 , * seldom stands in more tlian tliree pence, or four pence at most. Two stone of good potatoes will generally make three pounds of starch. Our own potatoes don't stand us in so much as I mentioned; and consider- ing how far it goes, I reckon the potato starch at two pence a pound; so vou see there is a considerable saving. Nanci/, But you d-on't reckon all the time that is taken in making it. Rose. Nor you don't reckon all the time that is taken in p:oin<>: to the shop for a pennyworth of starch. So as to the time spent going for starcli, and the time spent making starch, I believe it is six of one, and half a dozen of the other. 184 DIALOGUE XXXV, WASHING. Nanc)/j Rose. Nancy. That blanket on the hedoje is verv white. Is it a new one? Rose, No, I have it these six « years, in ahnost constant wear; but I have just washed it. Nancy, Then you wash your blanketij! Rcse, To be sure I do. Nancy. Well, every one is not so nice! and your linscy sheets look so white and so soft; sure tiicy liidc the dirt, you need not wash them so often. Rose. Sure the dirt is in them. 186 even when it's hid; and fleas, and other odious creatures, get into them, and it's unwholesome to be dirty; and children get the itch when they are not kept clean, and big people too. Naticif. How you talk, as if soap v,as not three pence tlie quarter! Rose, You know, Nancy, when clothes are poisoned with dirt, they take more soap to wash them; and the rubbing them so much wears them out. It's better to wash often, and not let clothes get so dirty. Nancy, O law ! one can't be wash- ing every minute! Rose. Well, one must have a few changes, and then there need not be washing so often; and I find that rubbing soap on the dirtiest places, and then steeping the clothes in soft water all night, makes them easier washed; for a great deal of the dirt 186 j comes out when they are wrung out ^ of the water. Nancy. But every one is not so ] particular as you; tliough I believe you save yourself trouble with your long look outs* ! 187 DIALOGUE XXXVI. THE Y/£ATIIER. Tim, Jenu Thn. Good morrow, Jem. JeirL Good morrow, kindl}-, Tim. Tim' Do you think it will rain soon? Jem, The swallows are flying low, it looks as if it would; but I hope it will keep up one week longer, or my little handful of oats will be lost; they are the crack of the country now, but if rain comes it would lodge them, and they would never rise. Tm. Now I wish for rain of all things; the potatoes will be burnt up, and not worth a pin, if the dry weather holds much longer. 1&8 Jt'm, Well, Tim, wc must only take the weather as it comes, and be satisfied with what is sent us; for you see the weather that would serve one, would hurt another; and it is well that we have not the order- ing of such matters ourselves. Tim. I have often wondered at people, who ought to know better, fretting, and finding fault with the weather; let it be what it will, they seem to think they could mend it. Dear help them ! if they were mow- ing a heavy meadow, in a powerful hot summer's day, or making up a ditch under a cold rain, they might then fret at the weather; but it does not become poor people to fret. Jem, Nor rich people neither; and it is a shame for them that can stay in the house from che sun and rain, to find fault with the weather; while the poor man must work, wet or Ci\\\ and dreads to stav one dav \S9 within, because he loses that day's hire, and is so ;>nicii the poorer. Tim. It's well fwr you, Jem, that you are so handy with your iiammer and nails, and can do so iaany turns while you are in the house. I think every poor man sliould learn to be so, and then he would know what to do with himself of a wet day. Though I am but a botch, I put up a cupboard for Nancy to keep her porringers in, for she vexes me so v/ith leaving them about, that I am ready to throw them at her head; but Rose's cupboard, that you made for her, is a great deal better. Jem. Why, Tim, I was always fond of sucli tilings, though it was my luck to be a labouring man; but, by not spending more than he earns, a labouring man may live as happy as a good tradesman. 190 DIALOGUE XXXVII. STIRABOUT. Nancy J Rose. Nancy, Tll thank you for a lock of meal^°. I have not cnoii2:h to thicken the sthabout. Rose. You are very welcome to it, Nancy; but did any thing* happen your meal, for you laid in more than we did? Nancy. Indeed nothing happened, but what haj)pcns to 'all the victuals — it ^vas eat — but I wonder what happened to yours, to last so long. Have you any knack of spinning it out? Rose. I have a particular method of making stirabout. 19i Nancy. What's that, Rose? My- self thinks you have a knack at every thing. Rose. To be sure. I let the water boil before I stir in e'er a grain; and when once it boils fast, I put in handful after handful, till I think there is near enough, stirring it very well all the time; then I lift the pot a hook or two higher, and cover it up for a good share of half an hour, very seldom stirring it. Nanci/. Sure it must be like paste. Tim likes the stirabout short. Rose. Stay, Nancy, till I tell you. Just before I take off the pot, I stir in one handful, and it's good, whole- some, short stirabout, and not near so heating for the children, as when it does not get it's due of boiling, as well as more nourishing for Jem, be- sides making the meal go a great deal farther. 19^ DIALOGUE XXXVIII. FORECAST. Nancy, Rose. Nancj/. How, in the name of won- der, do you keep such good clothes on yourself, and the children; and it is not Sunday you're drest, but every day? Rose. We don't pretend to much dress; but we strive to be clean, in- deed, and always to have a little change apiece. Na7ici/. If all of us had one suit apiece, I'd be very proud; but, in- deed, now the linen and every thing is so dear, I could not keep a tack upon the children, but for Mrs. Nes- bitt*^'; and what the quality gives us, lasts no time. J 193 Rose, For service they don't, but for a change for the small children they are very useful. However, if you take my advice, you'll aUvays keep a bit of wool, and flax, spinning in the house, and according as it is ready, give it to the weaver; and you won't miss the price of it, as you do when you go to the shops; there's few poor men can get a new shirt now. Na7icy, It's no sign by Jem^""; he can get it, and all your children too. Rose, We made all that linen as I told you, and bleached it ourselves; it's not a good colour by the bought linen, but it .is not a bad colour nei- ther; and we have a piece in the loom now, and will have more yarn ready shortly. Nancy. I tell you, Hose, we couldn't afford to buy the flax; it's hard enough to keep a bit in our mouths. K 194 Rose. The times are very hard, sure enough; and only for our bit. of land, we could not have the flax either. Nancy. Some people have more luck than others. Rose, We would not have such luck, only we waited till Jem could gather enough of his earnings to build this house, on this bit of land that he took; and to be sure many a one thought we'd never marry if we ^vaited for that; but Jem w^as mighty industrious entirelv, and was on his ^ guard against spending, never wasted his time smoking, nor wore out his clothes fighting, or the like; so you'd wonder how soon he gathered something worth talking of. Nancy. And did you gather no- thing yourself? Rose. I was at service, and my wages were not so high as to let me save much money; but, as I had a 195 liking for Jem all along, I still thought of making a little provision for housekeeping, and bought wool, and had it spun, and wove for blank- ets; more times^^ I bought flax, and got linen made; and whenever I had a bit of spare time, I was patch mg a quilt. I was saving a little clothes too; so that when we were married, I had plenty of linen, and woollen; and 3^ou may be sure it never went astray with us, either old or new. Jem, you know, had but middling health for a long time after his heavy sickness; and it would not answer us to be running to the shops, at evcrv hand's turn, either for food or clothes. Nancy. It's happy for you. Rose, and happy for your family, that you took such a sober turn early; for myself, I v/as always fond of a bit of dress, and Tim (though he is such a saving, steady man now,) loved com- K 2 196' pany, though he was no drinker; but he, nor I either, were ever the j)eo- ple to have a thing, and want it. They were the pleasant times when we met at the dance, or when he used to treat me to the best he coukl lay his hands upon, and thought nothing was good enough for me. Rose. I wonder he thought 3'our cabin good enough for you! Nancy. O, he was always used to the like of it, and so was I; but I wish it had been our luck to have liad more 'cuteness in time ! 197 DIALOGUE XXXIX. CONCORD. Rose, and hei' da tight ei' Betty, Rose, My dear Betty, why are you always cliccking your brother Tommy when he comes in^'^? you'll make him hate to come near vou. Indeed I fret a great deal about it. Betty. Why, mother, Tommy ne- ver lets me alone; he's always find- ing fault with every thing I do, and making little of me. Rose. And yet when you were sick, Tommy walked every foot to Carlow, to get the medicines the good Doctor ordered, that saved your life, I believe. 193 B'Jty, I know he did; and he's a good natured boy, but lie thinks girls arc no good. liaise. You know people must ' praise the ford as tliey find it.' Now, if you were pleasant with Tommy, and did not take huff, but passed over what he said in a joke, he'd soon leave off teasing you; but Avhile you go on scolding him, hell be apt to think you are ill-humoured, and then, to be sure, he'll think you are no good. Betty. No good! what do I mend his stockings, and knit them, and spin his shirts, and make and mend them for? Rose, Betty, honey, we must help one another. You are a good work- ing: ^'ii'K ^i^d vou do a deal for Tom- my; then again, he plants potatoes, and digs them for 3'ou. Now I am always afraid, when I see a sister thwarting, and comparing with her 199 brother, that she'll make a cross hus- band of him, it makes him get into the way of being snappish. So Bet- ty, do strive to alter, and let us hav« peace and quietness in the house. 200 DIALOGUE XL. CONCORD. Rose, and her son Tommy. Rose, Tommy, I am not pleased with you! You behave to your sister as if slic was not good enough to wipe 3"our shoes. What pleasure can she have in niakins: and mendins: for you, and ironing your shirt so neatly for Sundavs, when all the thanks she gets is snapping at her every now and then? Tommy. O, ^Mother, Betty vexes nie so wlien I conic in, and think to sit down quietlv': she has alwavs something; to fnid fault with. — 1 ditl not do tliis, and I did not do that. ,201 If I vvas ever so pleasant, she teases me till she makes me cross. Rose. Now, Tommy, consider, that whether she is old or young, a woman has a deal to do, and so many little things to think of, from morning till night, that she expects some patience from the men; they have but the one big thing to do, and to think of; and when the wo- men are doing their best to have all right in the cabin, I must say it is a man's duty to try to be pleased with it, and to show that he is pleased, or he may spoil the best woman in the world, with always finding fault; for ' tread upon a worm, and it will turn/ So, Tommy, do strive to alter, and let us have peace and quietness in the house. K :> 202 DIALOGUE XLI. S P I N N I N G - M A T C 11 ^^ Hose, and her daughter Betti/. Rose, Welcome, my dear Bett}^ I see by what you have brought with you, that you have won the premium for spinning, at Belmour Hall; and I am as rejoiced as you can be for your life. I wish your father was come in! Betty. O, mother, how I'm obliged to you! and, Tommy, I'm obliged to you for carrying the wheel home for me. I hope 111 spin you a shirt on it. Tommii. I don't doubt your good- ness, Betty, and I am sorry ever I vexed you. If I could carry twenty 203 wheels, it would not be enough for what you do for me. Rose. O, that's better than all the rest, to see my children love one another! Now Betty, let us hear all about the spinning-match. Betty, I'm sure it was a fine sight, to see twenty wheels settled in the lawn, in a half round, all going at once. There w^as a table in the mid- dle, that the spools were laid upon to be judged; and an active, sen- sible, knowing woman, sate by it to judge. The premiums were set out before us. First, there was this fine new cloak, and w^heel, and rock of flax, and this cap hanging on the rock stick. The second was a wheel with it's rock of flax, a cap, and an apron. The third a wheel, rock of flax, cap, and shawl. The fourth a wheel, rock of flax, and cap. The fifth a wheel, rock of flax, and rib- band; and that was the last. 204 Rose. And a great many; and enough to encourage all to take pains. Betty. ]\Irs. Bclmour herself came out, and walked round by the spin- ners, and spoke to every one there, so free, and so pleasant; and, O, how beautiful she looked, when she stood by Cicely Brcnnan, who is so lame of one hand, that she was almost afraid to venture at all, till Mrs. Bel- mour told her it was not who spun fastest, but who spun best, was to be looked to; and sure enough she got a premium. But when we had spun two hours, and laid our spools on the table, O, how our hearts beat! I know mine did, when Mrs. Bel- mour called us up; and I could not tell you how her fine black eyes danced in her head; and the tears stood in them for all that, and she smiled so sweetl}^ and looked as if she was the happiest creature in the world 20J Rose. O, Betty, I never wish \o be rich, but when I see such ladies as her, that can make so many peo- ple happy, and are so willing to do it. Betty. We stood before Mrs. Bel- mour, while the judge examined the thread; and when she called me to her, and gave me the wheel, and the cloak, and the cap, with her own hand, sure I did not know where I was standing, nor what I said! but I know she wished me joy, and bid me use my wheel well; and she was so pleased at every premium she gave! and she encouraged those that lost, and said they might win ano- ther time, that they seemed happy too, and all were pleasant and good humoured; and bowls of sillabub, and cakes, were handed round to us; and I hardly felt my feet coming home. Rose, Well, my dear Betty, I 206 must wish you joy too, though I can't do it so gcnteely as Mrs. Bel- mour. Betty. O, Mother, honey, I think more of your commendation^ than the lady's itself, though she is so grand, and so heautiful, and so good; and it is you I am ohliged to for my cloak, my \vhcel, and my cap. If you had not taught me to spin, and watched to make me spin an even thread, I might have come off with no premium, or have been ashamed to go at all. 207 DIALOGUE XLII. COURTSHIP. Rose, Mary, Rose. Is it true, Mary, that you are going to be married? Mary, It is true enough, neigh- bour Rose. Rose. Consider, my good girl, what you are about! you are very young, and Mick Brady is very young, and you have time enough before you to marry. Mary. O, but Mick and I love one another so well, and we will be so happy together! Rose. Have you earned any thing, or has Mick? Mary. Never a halfpenny, bar- ring the money to marry us. 208 Rose. And how- will you make out life? Alary. Mick will get work, and I will spin, or do any thing* I can; and we'll get a cabin, and Stephen Eofan will c:ive us three or four bar- rels of potatoes in score. Rose. Now, Mary, do not think of beginning tlie world with going in debt; you don't know what may hinder you from paying, and then you will have it hanging over you; and honest people cannot be easy when they are in debt; or if they can, they may dread that they are losing, by little and little, their good principles. Mary. Well, may be ]\Iick can scrape up the price of the potatoes before we go to housekeeping. Rose. May be in a little time he could scrape up something more; and till he does, I'd have you stay as you are. 209 Mary, Ah, Rose, you forget when you were young yourself! Rose, No, Mary, honey, I do not; and I can feel for young creatures like you, that wish to spend their lives together; and I speak for your good, for fear that * when poverty comes in at the door, love would fly out at the w indow.' Mary. O, Rose, don't talk that way! Why should not poor people love one another, as well as if they were rich? Rose, I'll tell you why. When they have nothing to the fore, but just striving to live, and can't get things comfortable about them, and their poor clothes wearing out, and may be two or three little creatures looking to them for bread, they are so distressed in their minds, that they can't be merry as they used to be, but one begins to fret, and then the other is vexed at that: and when £10 tlieir good humour is gone, that is a reason for * love to fly out of the window.' Marij, Well, let what will come, love would never fly out of our window. Kose. I'm sure I'd be glad how well young people loved one another, and old too, both before they are married, and after; but I am sure they will not love the less, for striving to save a little before they com^ to- gether. 211 DIALOGUE XLIIL COURTSHIP, Mary, Rose, Mary. Well, Rose, I have been thinking a great deal of what you said to me the other day. Rose, I am glad of it, and I hope you will mind it. Mary, Mick's a hard working boy, and a good earner. Rose, Take care though, that when he works hard, with an uneasy mind, that his strength won't hold out, and that you don't lose him, as poor Christy Dugan was lost. Mary, O, that would be terrible! What about Christy? Rose, Christy Dugan was an ho- 212 nest, good boy, like Mick; and her, and Esther Cranny, married before they were twenty. They did well enough at first, just living from hand to mouth, but when the children came, Christy's earnings would not do, though Esther helped him all she could, and they were no spend- ers; but what could a poor thing do with a child in her arms, and two others daddling about? Well, they got provision on score ; and to pay for these, Christy went in the season to mow, and do other hard work about Dublin, for high wages; and so he paid his debts honestly when he came home; and that's the way he got on, from one year to another; but the hard work was too much for him, he got a swelling in his knee, lingered several years under it, pined awav, and died. Mary. How did his poor wife do when he could not earn? 213 Rose, The Lord took pity upon them, and just then put them under one of the best ladies in the land, and she never let them want after- ward; but nothing could give poor Christy his health again, and sure only for her they were all beggars! Afcuy, But would you have me break off with Mick, and he and I so fond of one another since we were children? Mose, Indeed, Mary, I would not! I would have you be constant, and loyal to one another^^, and earn all you can with honesty, for one ano- ther's sake, and mind your business. Mary. Would not you let me keep company with Mick at all? Rose, Let him come to see you on a Sunday, or a holiday, but always have your mother by; and don't go walking together by your two selves, it's not pretty, and it's making too little of a girl; aDd Mick will like ^14 ^''ou the better for being reserved, and think the more of you after you are his wife. Mary. Ah ! but if he forsakes me, and fancies some one else! Ilose. If he does, he's not worth grieving for; but if he is a good, steady lad, you need not fear, except it is 3^our own fault. Mary, How my own fault? Hose. By making your company too cheap to him, or keeping com- pany, or flirting with other young men; then, indeed, I would not blame him, if he forsook you. Mary. I can't but love and thank you, Rose, and I intend to mind what you say. I will work hard, and strive to save, and I am sure ]\Iick will do the same; and when we have our things coz}^ about us, in a place of our own, we will think of vour sood advice, and bless vou. Rose. £15 DIALOGUE XLIV. gTRAW-PLATTINGU Rose^ Mary. Jlose. I AM glad, Mary, to see you look so well, and so contented. But why did not you come to see me before now? though you do live a few m.iles off, you are a good walker. Sure you were not affronted with the advice I gave you last Easter! Mary, Affronted! no indeed! I w^ill thank you for that advice the longest day I live^^ Indeed it was ungrateful of me not to come be- fore, to tell you how finely I was getting on, and all owing to your good advice, that settled my mind to business. •Q\6 Rose. I am very glad to hear that. What kind of work are yoa doing? Mary, O, the prettiest, the plea- santest that can be! — makins^ straw plat Good luck to the quality! though we are apt to think they don't care about us, yet when wc consider all the schools they set a going, and all the industrious little things they put us in the way of doing, we feel that they are our best friends. Rose. I am glad to hear you say that, for poor people often give tliemselves the way of scoffing at their grand neighbours, and grudging them their fine houses and clothes, while those very neighbours keep bread in theirs, and their children's mouths. But who taught you to plat? Mary. A very good young lady, who, in a quiet, easy way, does all she can to help poor people, by t\7 teaching, and giving them work to do. I thought, when she first offered to teach me to plat, that I could ne- ver learn; hut she had patience, and put me in the way of it. And then I had something to think of, besides always pondering about Mick, and contriving; in mv mind how I should get a little to the fore. When I be- gan to earn, I laid by my earnings, and took delight in platting, and learned to know what straw was best; and when I got enough to buy a splitter, I could take the work home; and besides doing a great dea.1 of my plat, could help my mo- ther in the cabin; and then, when I found I could save a little matter, without going to service, away from my mother and Mick, I was so happy! Rose. I suppose that made you take to learning the work so soon. 213 Mary. No, indeed I my thought strayed away so to Mick, that I did not get on at first as I might, for it is not liard to learn, and you would wonder how soon little children learn it. Rose, Why did not you let me know what you were about, by send- in 2; me a messao:e? Mary. I did not wish yon to know it, till I could make a little bonnet for Winny; I have it here, in this handkerchief; I did it as well as I could, I wish it was better for your sake. Rose. O, it is a beautiful little bonnet, fit for a gentleman's child! I am greatly obliged to yoj, and wish you success from my heart. I think you said children could pint; there is one m ho teach.es it near thl^, and I would like to send Betty to learn, only I think bad of sparing 219 her when she can earn so little, for I suppose you wasted a great deal of time learning. Mary. For the first three montlis, or so, it is true for you, I earned next to nothino:, but I was eaoer to o-et over a good many yards, suppose thev were not so well, because I would oet more for them than for a little that was well done. Kosc, And didn't you work quick, that you might earn the more? some would think it better to do as much as they could, than to spend so much time to do it nice. Mary, I thouglit so myself, but my mistress used many a time to say these very words to me — sure I re- member them as well as if I heard them this morning, because she said tliem so often; * Mary,' says she, '- don't stir vour fino-ers so fast until * you get into a good habit, and it's * while you are a new beginner you T ^ 220 can o'ct into tlie riulit method: but it you get into a wrong one now, you won't find it easy to get the better of it; and if ever you do, it must be by taking jxiins all over ao-ain, and that will still delav vou.' You see,' she would sometimes say, that Molly Casey earns a shilling a day, because licr plat is so smooth, and close, and clean ; yet when she was learninsf, she did not do more than a yard in a day. And there's Beck Timmins earns only threc- puencc, or foufpence a day, because her work is scarcely fit to mrike up; vet she alwavs did it extremely fast, but she won't take time to put in the right ends of the straw, nor to leave out the spotted ones; and she tosses her splints about in the dust, and then gathers them up, lieads and points:' (splints are the split straws). ' But Molly Casey ' keeps her splints clean in her cloth, 221 * and all the white ends together, so * that she has no trouble ordelav look- * ing at them.' And sure enough, Rose, I soon found her words were true; for there's all the differ^ in the world^^ made between the <>:ood and the bad; and yet when we get into the good method at first, it comes so natural to us, that wc get on as fast, or faster than the bad platters. Rose. It's so with every thing that ever I saw any one put their lianas to. * Once well done, is twice done;' and, as you say, it com.es na- tural to do every thing right, when we come used to it. I believe I'll send Betty to the platting school. Ufary, Do, Hose, for tiic more handiness tlie like of us can turn our hands to the better; tliey say the blind can plat, and you know the lame and helpless can; and there are ^QW things one couhl earn so much at, without stirring about: but not rrn to mention the lame, and the blind, and the little children, you know it's often II poor woman can't leave the cabin w ith any saictv or convenience, and if she had a bit of plat, jshe need not begrudge the time she sits quiet, and clean, and dyy. Rose. Say no more, Mary! I'll send Eetty, and wlien Winny is a little bigger, she can learn from her; an(l if I can learn it, so much the better; for ' learning's light to carry about.' 223 DIALOGUE XLV. COW-POCK. Nancij^ Rose. Nancy, What is the matter with little Winny's arm, that it is .so swelled, and red? Rose, Winny's in the cow-pock. Nancy. Now, Rose, 1 wonder at you, to give your own christian child the disorder of a bcast'°! Rose. Don't yen know^, Nancy, that slie will never have the small- pox, after she has this? and she has this only on her arm, and in a few days she Vv'ill be well. She was not much sick at all; and they never die of this pock. Sure it is the finest £24 tiling in the world to escape tliat clreaclfiil disorder, the smail-pox; and \vc ought to pray day and niglit for the man that found out the cow- pock. I hope you will get your two youngest little boys done. Afr. Goodwill inoculated Winnv with it, and he will do your cliildren from her, I am sure. Shall I ask him? for the small-pox is all about the neigh- bourhood. Nayicy. O, no; FlI let them run their chance, and take a disorder from a christian, and not from a cow. Host, Nancy, dear, don't talk so silly. How glad poor Terry Hogan would be now, if he had travelled forty miles to have his two fine girls done, sooner tlian let them have taken that nasty small-pox; and now they lie in Killellan, by one another; and och, how all the neighbours 225 cried for the good girls, tliat kept their mother and them elves decent, with making listin >-shoes. O, Nan- cy, don't be positive, but do your duty to your children, and save their lives if you can ! ft/ Nanci/. I'll think of it; but sure there's no hurry. Rose. Yes, but there is, though! In a little bit of time Winny's arm will be past taking it from; and may be there's no more in tlie country, and when you'd want to get it done you could not; and then you would be sorry, and never forgive yourself if any thing happened. Don't you know, that all that's said against the cow-pock now, was said against inoculation for the small pox, when it was first found out? yet even that was a great blessing, in comparison to taking it in the natural way. Be- lieve what your true friend says, and L 5 226 don't listen to the nonsense of peo- ple that never had a child in their lives, and don't care about tlie mat- ter any farther than to have the pleasure of finding fault. ^27 o DIALOGUE XLVL SMALL-POX, Rose, Nancij, Rose. I'm sorry for your troublCj Nancy. How is little Tim? Nancy, Bad enough! bad enough! and my line little Pat! — O, Rose, Rose! I was bewitched not to take your advice. O, my little darling' I can do nothing for thinking of him ; and I think I see his little curly head, and red cheeks, every hour in the day. O Rose, Rose! what shall I do^'? Rose. Ah, poor Nancy, I won't bid you not fret, for you can't but fret^' ! but consider the dear little 228 creature is better provided for, than you could provide for him; and let us see what can be done for little Tim. He lias a great deal of the pock, to be sure, but I hope he'll get through. Do pull the hat out of the broken pane; and take off the blan- ket, and let him have but little over him. Najicy. O sure hell get his death of cold ! Rose. Never fear, the disorder will keep him warm enough; and give him as much two-milk whey as he will drink. What's that in the cup? Naiicy, A little liquor; old Katty bid me give them it now and then, with sugar in it, to keep the pock from their hearts. Rut it did Pat no good; indeed 1 thought he grew worse after every tcaspoonful. But Katty said it would l.ive cured him, only his time was come. C29 Rose. I wish you had not minded Katty. Now get Mr. Goodwill to look at Tim, and he will tell you what to do; and I will stay with you, and sit up with Tim to night. 230 DIALOGUE XLVIL POLITICKS. Tlnij Jem. Jem. Tim, I don't sec you so often as I used. Where do you keep your- self? Tim. Why there's Vester Toole, and Paddy Moore, and Barny Walsh, and Bill Dunn, and two or three more, and I, that meet in the even- ings, at the Big Tree, to talk over a little business, that we don't care any one should hear. Jeyn. O, Tim, you frighten me ! take care what you do. No good ever comes of such people as us having secrets. Tim, Sure if we can't do good Q31 ourselves, we know what's w^antlng to be done. j€?n. Ah now, Tim, don't be fool- ish! how should we know what is wanting to be done? It's fitter for us to mind our own little potato gar- dens, and to think ourseh^es well off that we can have them while we pay our rent; and while we behave our- selves well, no one dares meddle w^ith us, not the king himself, as great a man as he is^^^ When we mind our business, and are sober and honest, that is the way we can do good, and not by talking of what we don't understand. Tim. What, because a man is poor, isn't he to understand politicks a little? O, if you heard Bill Dunn! it's he that knows what's what. Jem. Never mind his talk! our betters do no good with their talk- ing, and how can we? Let us re- member the rebellion, and how many 232 poor people were (]erc!\ ed with fine talking, and lost tiieir lives, and all that they had in the world; tliey thouG-ht they were doini>: Q-ieat feats, when they were just made a cat's paw of hy those that did not care a straw what he came of them after. Do, Tim, go and sj)end your evenings at home with your family, as you used to do. Tim. Ah, Jem, I never got up tny heart since I lost little Pat, nor Nancy neither; and we argued too much witli one another whose fault it v/as that he was not done with tiie cow-pock: and Nancy, to divert her trouble, took to the pipe, and would sit hour after hour in the ashes smokinc:. Then I used to make Honour clean up the place, that I miiiai: sit down comt'ortablv ; and when Nancy sa\v that the little girl was so handy, she goes herself to char at Mr. Nesbitt's; and now she £33 don't care to leave that good warm kitchen, though I am sure she works liarder there than ever she did at home. I always loved to have Nan- cy at home before me, so I am lone- some; and to have a little pleasure, I went to hear Bill talk, and I had no harm in it, and for any thing that passed among us, I hope there will be no more of it; but I'll rise out of it, and go home, and mind the chil- dren, since they are left upon me to mind. Jem. T would advise you not to be too severe on Nancy about smok- ing. It is reckoned good for the health, and reviving to the spirits, to smoke a little now and then; and the poor thing is low, and poorly often, I believe, since she lost her little boy. Tim. I do not say against a little smoking for refreshment, but to look for comfort in any such thing is not 234 right; it takes the mind from look- ing to Providence as much as we ought, and lets it settle too much in those things. Now Nancy is never willing to quit the pipe, but carries it in her mouth going about, which you know is a dangerous thing; and it must waste her streno-th to smoke so constantly, besides the money and the time that it wastes. Jem. I believe you are right in that; but you might quietly, and by little and little, w^ean her from the constant use of tobacco. Tim. Ah, so I might, if she would keep at home! but that's another thing she looks for comfort in, going from her own house; and sure if we are not happy at home, wc can be happy no where else. It's a great trouble to mc, and I am afraid I shall not have much more satisfaction in this world; so much depends on the woman, to make a man's little place ^235 ': i comfortable to him, that when slie \ leaves that to chance, and considers i only what is agreeable to herself, j nothing goes on right as it should i do. \ 23G DIALOGUE XLVIII. CHARRING. Rose, Nancy. Rose. Did I say or do any thing to offend you, Nancy, that you never come near me now? Though you have removed to the other side of the liill, you might come over to see one. Nancy, No, Hose, you never did or said any thing to oifend me, nor any one else, I believe; but I have not time to go so far. Rose. I thouo'lit vou would have more time, now that Honour's grown so big, ami able to help you. Nancy. She is able to do so much, and docs so well, that I go now to 237 char at Mr. Nesbitt's, Why do you look so wonderfuF*? Am not I well off? Rose. Wliy, all I can sav is, that I would not like it. How can you be easy in your mind to leave your cabin, and your family, trusting to a little girl, and poor Tiui not to find you at home; only he's such a sober man, it might drive liim to the ale-house. Nancii. O, Rose, I make my fa- mily the better for it! Many's the good bit I bring home, and the fine ends of candles, and lumps of soap, and grease to dip my rushes, and sometimes a bit of tea and sugar. Rose, Does Mrs. Nesbittgive you all that? Nancij. No, no, Mrs. Nesbitt knows nothing about it; but such thino-s are not missed out of a bior o o house, and I may as well get them as another. Rose, Nancy, dear, think of what 23S you are about; sure that is not ho- nest! Najicy. No one can say, that I am not an honest Moman, I found a note for five pounds, trod into the grass, just outside the sash door: I knew it was moncv, and I took it to Mrs. Nesbitt; and it liappcned to be a gentleman's that had dined there the day before, and he gave me a dollar for my honesty. The servants laughed at me, and said I might as well have kept the note; but I would not keep it, and I was on thorns till I got it safe out of my hands: it would never thrive with me. Roguery never thrives. Rose, And yet you bring things out of the house! Nanci/. ril never deny it. I think it is no roguery to take a bit of victuals, or a few sods of turf '^ Rose. And yet the bit of victuals, and the sods of turf, continually 239 ; going, might do more harm to a ' gentleman's substance, than losing live pounds now and then. I believe people are often made poor by such doings, and those who take them : not a bit the better; for ' honesty is ■ the best policy,' if there was no other I world but this; but, dear Nancy, ] when we consider that we must not ] live here always, how watchful should i it make us not to do wrong, that we \ may find mercy at the last hour, j 249 DIALOGUE XLIX. CHARRING. Rose, Nancy. Rose. I JUST came to you, Nancy, to talk over what we were speaking of llie other day between ourselves. Nancy. About my charring at ]Mr. Nesbitt's, I suppose. Rose. Yes, I came to advise vou ao-ainstit; and I'm afraid vou'll find it a wo day, when you lirst set foot in that house. Nancy. Why so? Mr. and Mrs. Nesbitt are very good people, and have very good children. Rose. I know that; and I am sure, if they looked into it, they would not think M^ell of your leavino^ vour J 241 own cabin to work for their servants, that have time enough to do more than they have to do, where there's so many of them, while your poor Honour is slaving at home. Nancy. I thought you liked to set children to work when they are young. Your Betty has been in the wav of doino* a deal this long: time. Rose, I do like to have children set to work bv their mother, and under her eye, that can put them to what's proper for them to do; but when they are left to themselves, if they are children given to work, they will often strive to reach at more than they can do, and that frets them, and spoils their tempers, and makes them cross to the vounorer children; then if they are fond of play, they will leave all at sixes and sevens, to go and romp about. Now I think Honour is a g-ood little oirl but she can't be expected to have M the tliouglit of an old body; for tlicic is to clean the children, and mend their little clothes, for they want watching, or they go in a hurry. Nancy. I strive to do a little at tlieni when I come in, when Fm not too much tired. Hose. But what I think worst of than all is, what you told me of bringing things home from the big house. Sure Tim can't be satisfied at that ! ISancxj. I take care Tim don't know but that they are given to me, and I make the children promise not to tell. Hose. Oh, worst of all! will you make your children liars, to hide your being a to hide your taking what's not your own? N(uici). I know what you were iroinir to call me, and I would not put up with it from another; but 243 you are always so loth to vex one, and seem as if it hurted you to say any thing sharp, more than those you said it to, that I can't be angry with you. Rose, Then, dear Nancy, be ad- vised. Stay at home with your fa- mily; keep them together, and whole, and clean; set them a good example, they will love you, and your delight will be in them ; and you will rather eat a dry potato with them, than roast beef any where else. u o 244 DIALOGUE L. THE FIRE'^ Rose, and her daughter Betty. Rose. What's the matter, Betty, you look as if you were friglitened? Betty, O, mother, a terrible thing has happened, and poor Nancy Cas- sidy is ruined for good and all! Rose, O} tell me what it is! Betty. There's ]\Ir. Nesbitt's place all in a blaze; they say all his fine horses are burnt to death; and oh, Mother, they say one of the fine little children is burnt to death too! Rose. Oh, Betty, don't say so! Betty. And all by Nancy's means, but I could not well know hov^^ Here's Tommy! Were you at the fire, Tommy? Is any thing saved? 245 Tommy. O yes! but a great deal of mischief is done; a stable is burnt, and the fine large turf-house, and all the turf; but the dwelling house is safe, and all the horses are got out of the stable. Rose, And the child, Tommy, — Oh, the child! Tomryiy, There v/as no child near i t. Betty, They said one of the chil- dren, and all the horses were burnt 1 Tommy, Make yourselves easy, no child was hurt, nor so much as a dog lost it's life. But you never saw how poor Tim Cassidy worked, and what danger he run into! Every one helped, but none like Tim, and in- deed no one had so good a right. Rose, Why so? Tommy. It was Nancy set the place on fire with her nasty pipe, that she never lets out of her moulh. She went for turf, and a coal fell from her pipe unknown to her, and QIC the turf being dry, and the weather liot, it kindled; and in two or three hours, the fire blazed out at the top of the house, through the thatch; and then poor Nancy roared, and screeched, and cursed her pipe. Rose. Well she migiit, poor crea- ture! Oh, children, let this be a warn- ing to you never to touch a pipe!" 247 DIALOGUE LI. THE FEVER^^ Rose, Ncinc]/, Hose. Wpiy would not you send for me, Nancy, when your poor man took ill first? Sure you knoAV I would do all in my power for you or him ! Na7icy. Oh, sure I would have sent for y(5u, but I thought every day that he would be well directly; and Dick Fahv the horse doctor bled him, and said he would be able to work in a day or two. Rose. Who bid you get him bled? Nancij, Several said it v/ould do him good; and he never was bled before; and you know it's said that S48 the first time one is bled, it will cure the disorder, let it be what it will. Rose, That's all nonsense, for there are many disorders that bleed- ing is poison i'ov; and it's a nice thing to know when to bleed. And sure it has not cured Tim ! Nancy. Oh, no! he's worse ever since: and Madge Doran bid me give him warm ale, with a little li- quor in it, to rise his heart. Rose, rd be afraid to give him hot things: and whv have vou such C? V ft/ a load of clothes upon him? I think you keep him too hot. Nancy. Madge bid me sweat him of all things, and that it would throw off the disorder; and he sweated, but it has not given him a cool yet. Rose. Now, Nancy, a sweat often comes on at the turn of a sickness, and carries it off, but I question it is good at the beginning; and I believe the fresh air, and light drinks, such 249 as whey, apple tea, and the like, would be better for him than stew- ing him this way, for I think he has a fever. Nancy. Ay, so the iieighboura think now; and though they were very good to us at first, and you eould hardly turn round you, the room was so full, and they talked to him, and strove to keep up his spirits, yet now the name of a fever has frightened them all away, and no one comes near me, and I sit cryina: ©vcr him from morning till night. Rose. Nancy, my dear Nancy, don't do that! if you make him low spirited you'll kill him. When Jem was in the fever the doctor cliargcd me never to let him see me cry ; anct- I always strove to look pleasant, and speak cheerful, though my heart was. breaking at the same time. Nancy. Oh, Rose, I could not do M 5 o 50 that; but I suppose the ncighbour& did not leave you to yourself. Ivose, Indeed tliey did, as you may remember; and no blame to poor people to be afraid of a fever; and I was glad that they staid away, for nothing can be worse for a sick body, than to have many people about him; thcv hinder the fresh air from coming to him ; and the noise, and talking to him, and making him talk, 1 believe has killed many a one. Nancij. What will become of me if my poor Tim dies? — the father of xny chiklren! Rose* Did you go to Mr. Good- will about him? Nanci/. 1 did not» I thouglit l)ick, and IVIadgc, and several of the neighbours were so skilful, that I need not go farther; and I was ashamed, besides, to go to Mr. Good- \vill, because I never went to return 251 him tlianks after little Tim recovered of the small-pox, after liis being so kind in comin<>- to see him every day, and sending him nourishment to rear him out of it, and taking the pearl oiF his e3^e. Rose, And why didn't you? Sure the least ^ ou could do, was to thank the good gentleman. Nancy, Indeed it was not my heart that hindered me, and many's the prayer I prayed for him, but I liad not time. Rose. Oh, Nancy, you had time for smoking! but I don't want to fret you. Go to him now. Nancy, Oh, Rose, Tm asliamed ! and he'll think me so ungrateful, he'll do nothing for us. Rose. If you knew Mr. Goodwill, you would not talk that way. ItV »o matter to him whether people arc ungrateful or not; he could not sleep easy on his bed at night, if he thoiiglit lie could do good to any one, poor or rich, and did not do it. Do vou think that such a fine sren- tlenian, so finely learned, and hred as lie is, by all accounts, that refuses invitations from the greatest of qua- lity, to go among the poor people, spending his time and his money to cure them, and to help th.em every Way, do you think tliat he looks to them for a reward? No, no, it's what lie looks for, the plca-^ure of doing all the good he can in this world, and the everlasting happiness of the next. Nancy. Well, HI go to him: but I know he won't be at home till evening, for blind Dolly was wilh him, and I heard her saying he was going this morning to see a poor fa- mily that were all down in the fever, at the glen of Imaul. Rose. At any rate open the door^^ and let in th.e air at the window^ 253 and when Tim wakens, lighten the clothes by degrees; and do you air a clean shirt to put on him. Aancj/. Madge charged me not to put fresh linen on him, for it would give him cold. Rose, Not at all : when it is tho- roughly aired, it refreshes a sick per- son, and helps to carry off the weight of sickness; then throw what you take off into a tub of cold water, till it can be washed, for that hinders tlie disorder spreading. Nancy. What little I took off him, I put in the cupboard under the dresser. Rose, Ah, Nancy, take them out of that directly! It makes my flesh creep when I think of what happened by that very tiling. Nancy. What happened? Rose. When I lived servant in the Queen\s county, there were two as good young men^ and as clean. 254 clever, likely boys as you could see in a suniinei's clay, bouglit a dresser in a house w lierc the fever liad been, and carried it home between them. The sick people's clot lies liad been thrust into the cupboard of the dres- ser, and had left the venom of the sickness in it^^; and these two young -men, and their brother, and two sis- ters, all the family, except the poor old mother, were lying on the broad of their backs, in the same fever, a few davs after thev brouoht the un- fortunate dresser home; and the two eldest brothers, and their beautiful young sister, were all whipped oil' in ten davs time; and to be sure you would hardly see a smile on any one's face about the neighbourhood, it shocked us all so! Nancif. Honour, Honour, get a tub of water directly} Rose. Now, Nancv, send your little children to our cabin, and Ectty 255 will take care of them; and Honour will do all the turns here, and you and I will attend Tim; and we'll get a bottle of vinegar, and heat the grisset, and pour vinegar in it, and set it in the room with Tim; and the fume will be pleasant to him, and will be good to hinder us from taking the fever; and we will wash his face and temples with vinegar, and bathe his hands in warm water; and Mr. Goodw^ill will tell us what else we shall do; and, with a blessing, Tim will get over this — though I don't like the w^ay he draws his breath. Nancy. My blessing, and the blessing of my children, and Tim's blessing be upon you. Hose"! You were always good, egg and bird. The neighbour:^, w4io would sit and talk idly over the pipe with me, or over a pot of tea, if I had it for them, — ah, it is not they that would leave their families, and come to this t56 poor place, to settle clown to take care of a sick man! no, when they did come, they could order this, and order tliat, but not one of them ever handed him a drink. Rose. Now Tim is waken in q; give liim this nice sup of whey, and speak pleasantly to him. DIALOGUE LII. WHISKEY. Nanci/j Rose, Nancy, Rose, I came to advise with you. I have not a friend in the world like you. Rose, What can I do for you, Nancy? I am your friend, you know, and you won't think bad of me for just remarking, that — I am sorry — I thought I got a smell of whiskey, as you spoke just now. Nancy. I believe you did. Rose. What can a poor heart-broken widow do, with a cabin full of fatherless children? I just took a little drop, to keep life in me, and make me for- get my trouble. 258 Rose. Now, Nancy, my dear gos- sip, let me beg of you not to get that fasliion. If you do, it's the worst tiling ever happened you; worse than the loss of your little Pat; worse than the fire at Mr. Nesbitt's, that turned them so against you; worse than Tim's death itself. Naiici/, Ah! what could be worse than that? My dear Tim! the best husband that ever poor woman had! I did not behave well enough to him when he was alive; and, oh, wasn't it I that killed him? Wasn't it with my setting the house on fire that he got his death, working like a horse, to put it out; and with the fright he took, and the heat he put himself in, he fell sick dircctlv. Rose. Well, Nancy, it don't sig- nify fretting for what's over! Here vou have your children to take care of yourself. Honour is bic: cnoiioh to go out; and Bill can lead a car; Tim 259 and Martin could pick stones; and little Poll and Peg will soon be able to do something; and they will be all better able to help 3'Ou every day. You used to be a good washer; may be 3^ou could get washing to do, and then you need not leave your house and children; and you can sew, and knit, and spin. Always be doing something, and that will keep the trouble more from your heart, than taking that odious liquor. Do, Nan- cy, dear, leave it off at once, or I tell you, flat and plain, it Avill be the ruiu of you ! teo DIALOGUE LIIL DEGRADATION. Nancy, Rose, Na7icy, Rose, I get very bad health of late. I must have Honour home, to take care of me, and the cabin. Rose* O, Nancy, my dear, you'll make me fall out with you at lastl You would not take mv advice, but went on using that abominable li- quor; and now no wonder that you are sick, and the poor figure you are, and your children all dirty, and ragged. Nanci/. AVhatcanldo? I thought to follow a little dealing, and Miss Salsbury lent me a couple of guineas; and I got threads, and tapes, and a 261 little harchrare, and dry fruit; but the money went as fast as I got it; I could not tell how; and when I couldn't make it up for Miss Salsbury, she would not lend me any more, but blamed me for making such a bad hand of it. Rose. I can't wonder at that. And, indeed, Nancy, I never liked your going to deal, it took you so much from your cabin. Nanc}^. I can hardly bear the house, thinking of my poor Tim, that I loved so well. Rose. You would show your love to him by staying at home, and taking care, and doing your duty to your poor Tim's children; and there is nothino; vou would find such com- fort in, as hi doinor what vou know he would wish you to do, if he was alive. Nancy. I am not able to work, or do any thing for myself or them. ora 20 j\Ir. Ncsbltt's family were kind to me, and used to give me work, and showed me great favour and affection, but now they are turned against me, for the silliest thing in the world ^^ Rose. It was very kind of them to take notice of vou ai::ain, after all they lost by you; but what did they fall out with you for? Nanci/. Why, there was young Aliss Byron, and Miss Fanny Nesbitt were very great, and because they could not see one another often, they used to send messages and books back and forwards. !Miss Fan- ny liked to send my little Poll, be- cause she was a tight, smart, little thing, and she used always to pay Poll a few pence, and bid her save it, to buy herself a little stuti' coat; but Poll used to give it to me, and indeed I had use for it, to get some- thing to nourisii my heart when I was weak, and I intended to buy 0,63 Poll the little coat instead, when 1 could earn it. Now Poll was smart, and when she took the messages to ]\Iiss Byron, Miss gave her money too; and she never told Miss Fanny that, so slie got a good deal for a while, till they found her out, and then neither of them would ever send her again; and they hlamcd me, and said I was bringing her up in deceit, and that they could not depend on me; and they would not let me be about the place any more. Bose. Indeed you did very wrong. It's no wonder at all that thev were angry. Najicjj. I knew they had plenty of monev, and that we wanted it worse than they did. Rose. Sure you were not to have the ordering of their money, they knew what to do with it. Now you have lost not only their good will, but have destroyed your child, by •64 making a rogue of her. Do, now, Nancy, think of yourself, and yonr children; leave olf that fashion of taking whiskey, lay yourself down to do something for your family, and your health will he better; and don't unsettle Honour out of her good place. Nancy. Ah, Rose, wlien you talk to me it does me o'ood, and I think I will take your advice; hut then I have such a hankering after the little drop of liquor, that I can't do with- out it. Oh, I wish I had never tast- ed it. 265 DIALOGUE LTV. DEATH, Betty, and her mother Rose, Betty. Ah, mother, why are you fretting and crying so much for Nancy? sure all her friends should be glad now she is gone. I am sure it is well for her children! and that's a poor thing to say of the mother of a family. Rose. Ah, poor Nancy! I hope, indeed, it is well for herself that she is gone. She had little satisfaction latterly in this world, and she prayed for mercy, and said she hoped she had found it. Betty. Well, mother, you did your part by her, at least. You let her N 066 want no care in her last sickness; you did not spare yourself, early and late, in attending her, and providing for her. Rose. Tliat is a comfort to me now, for I cannot but fret for my old gossip. Bettif. Well, I wonder how you could like her! She was a good-for- nothing, idle body, dirty, and a slat- tern, always smelling of tobacco and whiskey, at least for the last two or three years; and indeed ever since I knew her she was no great thing. Rose. She was a fine, lively young girl; but, my dear Betty, her fault was idleness, and all her troubles were owing to this fault. She would not stay in a i>;oo(l service, beAuse slie had a good deal to do; then she got into another, where she had a great deal more. She did not do as much as a poor woman had a right to do in her own cabin, and she 267 worked harder as a char-woman, than she need do at home. She did not exert herself under her troubles, hut looked for comfort to what was not comfort. She took to tobacco wlien she' lost her little boy, and to whis- key when she lost her husband. Her indolence in not getting him inoculated with the cow-pock caused the child's death; by her smoking, she set Mr. Nesbitt's place on fire; his overworking himself to put it out, was the means of her husband's death; and drinking whiskey brought herself to the grave. And, now, Bet- ty, I don't rip up those things to make little of poor Nancy, but to show you how much it stands every yoiing girl upon, to get into the way of working, to look more to pleasing her friends than to pleasing herself, to- watch that she gets no bad ways and fashions, and, above all, to pray to be able to do her duty to her 268 Maker, and to her fellow creatures; and, when trouble comes upon her, to consider that it is sent for her good, and endeavour quietly, and humbly to bear it, and not to look for comfort any where, but in her own heart and endeavours. Poor Nancy is gone out of this world^', you are coming into it, Betty, as I may say. When you think of poor Nancy, pity her; and be thankful when 3'ou escape the faults which she fell into, and which brought her to sorrow, shame, poverty, and death. 269 GLOSSARY AND NOTES FOR THE USE OF THE ENGLISH READER^ P. 3. ^ The life zvas out of it. Here is an example of the Irish poetical mode of expression. Instead of saying that a person is killed^ or dead, they say i/oiill nextr hear him speak again; or, he'' II never taste a bit, or swallow a drop inore; or^ he'll never trouble any body more — the life is out of him. the breath is gone out of him. Like the ancient expressions — he has ceased to be — he is no more — the vital spark is fled. — * And from the lips the vital spirit fled * Returns no more to wake the silent dead. P. 3. * ' Sure it was great luck that nothing happened,* 270 When Tim and Nancy are going to be married, a similar expression occurs to jus- tify the precipitation of their marriage. * Snre zee don't know zcJiut luck is before its,* And, afterward, when their race is nearly run, they exclaim, ' / 7cish it had been our * Juck to have had more 'cuteness in time.* This belief and trust in luck never quits the Irish from the cradle to the grave, and is the cause of many of their vices, and of some of their virtues: if a poor man's crop fail in a bad season, or if his cattle die, he fells you, ' Sure there's no use in fretting; it * was my luck to have no luck at all the * year/ And if the same misfortunes hap- pened in consequence of his having neg- lected to buy good seed, or of his having overworked his horses, still he would attri- bute all to his luck. This belief m a j/car of misfortunes usually tends to produce the evil that is predicted ; and ' theie's no use in fiettiiiij;,' implies also, ' there's no use in mending.' They are fully aware that ' There is a tide in the affairs of men, * Which, taken at it's flooJ, leads on to fortune." 271 But though they waste the best partof thcii days waiting for this tide, they seldom have the luck to take the current when it serves. They agree with the ancient moralists^ that whomever the gods mean to destroy, they first deprive of understanding. This con- viction serves them as a satisfactory excuse for all their faults and follies. ' How co.i.es it/ ?ays a landlord to his tenant, ^ that you did not apply to me in * proper lime to renew your lease? now you ' have double fines to pay^ as a penalty for * omitting; to renew.' ' True for me,' replies the careless tenant^ * but I never had the luck to think of it at ' the right minute!' * How has your hiwsuit with O'Branna- ^ gan ended?' * O, plaieyoni' honour, he cast me! I ne- ' ver had any luck at all at law.' * Then I wonder you are so fond of going ' to law.' ' Sure there's not a man in the kingdom * hates law more than myself, plase your * honour; but it's always my luck to be in ' law.' 27^ (An Irishman says in law, as another man would say in love.) ' Were you not in jail, some lime ago?* ^ I was, plase your honour. It was my ' luck to be put in for no fault of my own, ' at all, but just happening to be in bad ' company, that swore away my life behind ' my back.' * But you are alive, still, I think!' ' I am, j^/ase your honour, by great luck; ' for there was enough again me (against me) to hang tzainty such as I; but 1 had the * luck to have the bestlawyer in Ireland, who ' made out an alibi for me, to the satisfac- * tion of \\\Q jidge, who 'gave it in charge to ' tlie jury to bring in the vardict for me en- * tirely. So 1 got off, and was let out; and, * if I have i\n\ luck, I'll never get in again, ' or put it in the power of any man to belie ' me, let alone hanging me.' P. 4. ^A mope— horn mopus. Johnson gives to mope, and be moped; and also mopus — • moping, is a favourite word of Milton and Gray. The formation of the substantive from the verb is according to analogy; as a bite, is formed from to bite; — to quiz, ow N 273 the contrary, is formed from the substantive pronoun quis; a question, ^vhich it is sup- posed nobody can answer. P. 5. * ' I wonder you would demean your- ' self, to learn of your younger sister!' To demean — to debase, to undervalue — is used in this sense by Shakespear: * Now, out of doubt, Antipholis is mad, * Else he would never so lc of ji superior rank, who niiglit give a» s^ood advice perhaps, but Vvho would not be supposed to liavo tlie same knf)wled2:e of all the circumstances of the case, or to be seii- ■iiO/e ot the peculiar provocations and difH- cnltics of tiie situation. P. 101. -°' I zcos i(rr)nv tn marru till I ' hud something to the Jure' To the Jure — beforehand. Mr. Malthus \vill be pleased with this sentiment. P. 104. 31 Sujidau. — ' Jheji zee must run * ever)/ -foot of the zcay to (he chapel, and are ' often lafe after all.' Kvcri/ foot is not said as a measure of dis- tance, but of velocity — as slow as foot can fail, or^ as fast as foot can go, arc common expressions. Nancy's picture of the hurry and scramble on a Sundav morning to get the hnalfa-it occr, and herself and the chil- dren dressed for prai/er.<; Tim bothering her for a button, or a string, or to draw up a Ih)1c in his stocking: tlie runniug lo ciiapel; the Inirrv home to l)roil the hit of meat; the children runnini;- wild; the lo>inu: of the cocks and hens; the children scitinc: ihf '295 dog and cut to fight; and Tim scolding them all by turns, is a picture worthy the pencil oFMorJand, or Bird — worthy the pen of Goldsmith, or of Crabbe. P. 104. 32 ' So there's nothing but hubbub *' from morning till night/ Hubbub is a Miltonic word. — * A universal liuhbuh wild, Of stunning sounds, and voices all confused.'* P. 105. 33 i After breakfast we have plen- ^ ty of time to put on us.* 'To put on us — to put on our clothes; to take off us — to take otf our clothes. The editor was going to have explained these phrases by, to dress, and to undress; but these words would, to fashionable readers, have conveyed the very reverse of the nieanin<>; intended. p. 1 10. 34 i Don't harden their little hearts * bi/ taking part with one against another.* An excellent lesson in education, shortly and patheticall}^ given. P. 1 1 1 . 35 < I praij that nothing may make * me keep ill rcill to any one. I could not ^ lie dozen p/easa/tt/i/ to sleepy or rise up plea^ * saiitlij to zvorky nor love mij husband or chil- 296' * dren right/y^ nor do any tiling as I ought. * if my jnind rcas poisoned with npitc.^ Pure morality and religion, without any oaniirfg or hypocrisy. 1*. 1 15. 36 i J'/iat sack of potatoes that zee * fjoth raised such a)i argument about. ^ To raise an argument is to dispute; to argue signifies usually among the lower, and sometimes among the higher classes of peo- ple, to dispute^ not to reason, or to offer reasons, as Johnson defines it. * To per- ^ suade by argument,' which is another of Johnson's definitions of to argue, would to them appear a contradiction in terms. P. 116. 37 < Nothing rearms the heart to * a person like his ozcning himsef in the * urons^.' The explanation of this must be f'lt, or it can never be understood. It has seldom been better expressed than in these simple words. P. 117. 3" * / can't be easif till Bill and I ' are friends a train: in the morning K'hen I ' zcaken, I feel that something is the matter * with mCy and I cant at first remember it, ' and I am afraid to tri/ to remember it, but * it comes like a cloud over me.' 7'his is a natural and beautiful description of the feelings of the mind — of ^ a mind not ' used to it's own reproaches.'* This short speech may do incalculable good. Instead of a tiresome lecture against being quarrel- some, this at once opens the secret recesses of the heart, and shows the pain and rest- lessness, which are the consequences of fool- ish quarrels. Comes like a cloud over me — This is a Shakspearian expression : ' How is it that clouds still hang on you?' Hamlet. And again, Shakspeare_, in Richard the Third : ' You cloudy princes, and heart-sorrowing, * That bear this mutual heavy load of moan, * Now cheer each other in each other's love,"* P. 117. 39 < Thcii fell out in the fair, and ^ set to figlUingy and Dinny hit Phil on the ' head zcith hi6 unhichi/ shillela.* Shillela. Formerly there was in the county of Wick low, in Ireland, an oak wood, called Shillela, from which the country ♦ Junius. o n 298 people used to cut slicks or cudgel-?, tlieuce named sliillelas. Sliiilela is now a general name for any cudgel, wlictlier of oak or other wood. Afier having fortified himself with a nag- 2:on of whiskey, I^uldy, brandishing his -liillela over his head, feels confiilent that he can at anv time make his way ihrouirli twenty times the slop that law or reason could oppose to Ids single arm. * Un/iirLy shillela.' — Here, by a happy mctonvmv, the blame is transfeired from Th.e man to llie stick. And this is not onlv in the true spirit of eloquence and poetry, hut also accordino; to the strict forms of law atid justice. Every body knows that the >veapo[i with whicii any outrage is com- mitted against his majesty's peace, upon the body of any of his liege sul jects, is forfeit to the crown; and it is essential to the con- viction of the criminal, to include the guilty weapon in the indictment. ' 77/(7/ Jell oiu i/i ihc fairy and ^tt to * tiEhtina-.' f The inoinie.g afier the fair-day, in any )aut:v U)wn in Ireland, the neighbouring a^'istrute has a crowded levee. Men with t M. »l^"o '299 black e^^es, and faces grimed with blood, and cut heads bound up with many-coloured garters, appear at his door, shouldering and thrustinu' themselves one behind another into his honour's prisencc, to get justice. Fumes of whiskey and of wet trusties, &c., instantly fill the room. The figures, who all look like poverty-struck demoniacs, stand still and silent for a moment, till the}' are spoken to by his honour ' What is your ' business with me'?' ^ Plase your honour see this cut in mv ' head, it is what I was last night, kilt and ' murdered by Terence JVTGrath, here.' ^ Plase your honour I never lifted my * hand against him, good or bad, at all at ' all, as ail the witnesses here will prove for ' me on oath, so they will.' Then, all at once, in various brogues, some Ions:, some j!>hort, some Connaught, some Cork, some Kerry, they bawl, they foam, they gesticulate; possessed by the spirit of law and vengeance, they press for- ward to swear. * Plase your honour if ' you'll just take my examinations again * him.' 300 ' Give iiic the book till I sweai plase your ' honour.* Then, * B^ the virtue of t/tii book, and of *■ all the books that ever were shut and opened^' they swear, not according to the best ot* tlieir belief, but according to the worst of their wishes, and in terms such as turn what should be grave to farce. As, for instance, in the following extract from an examina- tion lately taken by an Hibernian magis- trate. * Deponent being duly sworn, deposeth ^ that on the fair-night of the S27tli instant, ' he, the said Bartly Connor, did, in the * presence of Garry McLaughlin aforesaid, ' swear iliree several times, that he would * send deponent's soul to Hell, which depo- * nent verily believes lie would have done, ' if he had not been prevented by said Garry ' M'Lauirhlin.' After such examinations have been taken and sworn to, after deponent has bound himself in ten or twetuy pounds to prose- cute at the next sessions, he shrubs and twists his shoulders witii the most satisi'actory hope of lodjjrinij: bis adversarv in Laol. While 301 the committal Is makiiiG: out, the adversary steps into the town, uider favour of tlic constable, to look for bail among his frinds. Deponent follows him to the whiskey -shop^ and the chances are that the deadly feud is made up in a few minutes, by a few glasses of whiske3^ The wounds of their minds and bodies seem on some occasions to heal with won- derful celerity, and bj/ the fmt intention. On other occasions, even a tradition of the slightest injury or insult forms a sufficient cause for swearinii; inextiuGcuishable hatred between opposite factions. Many of the lisrhts at fairs are not mere casual rencontres between drunken individuals^ but pitched and premeditated battles between the hoy$ of one town against the hoys of another. It should be observed, that the term boys in- cludes men of all ages^ to sixty and upwards. The beaten party atone fair, * kilt and mur- * dered' as they are, live on in the hopes of getting satisfaction at the next; for wliich they take care to muster fresh boys among their friends and relations; and they go in sreat force, armed as before with whiskev 302 and sliillelas. ' Toiuh one Tagan, and you ' touch five hundred!' exchumed a saddler, wiio was biaG:ii:ii»i2: of some of his feats of CD 'J O amis at a fdr. DminG: the last rebeUion, and for sonic niontlis preceding it, the coun- try was hushed in grim re])Ose, no figluing at f.'tiis was heard of; the united-men could not fni:ht with each other, and they dared not even get drnidv,, lest they should betray themselves. The recurrence of the fiiihts at fairs is now considered by those wjio know the people best, as a most favourable symptom of the loyal and peaceable chspo- sitions of the lower classes in Ireland. It seems iliat some vent for the an^rv passions of individuals has, by ali govern- ments in all times, been permitted or con- nived »it; in the Ijigher classes duels, in the lower boxing; tlie sword, the pistcd, and the shiiltla have been tolerated. Benevo- lent and christian moralists may hope, that religion and ethicalion may gradually disci- pline men to live in peace one with another. And we sanguine authors ma}^ flatter our- selves, that sucii homefelt reasoning and per- suasive eloquence as this Cottage Dialogue 303 affords^ may have a beneficial effect upon young minds yet unspoiled by example_, and undisturbed by passion. In the mean time tlie English should not be imprudently unmerciful in their sarcasms u{)- on iUe b(irha7is)n of the [rish, because a com- pari.^on between the manners of the lower classes i n the different parts of the un ited king- dom might not always prove advantageous tQ the English. For example, persons of im- partial feelings might prefer a stroke on the head from an [ri^■h shillela, to a cut on the shins from shoes, the to(?s of whiih are shod with iron, such as are said to be used in cer- tain Englisii kicking matches. It may also IjC questioned whether the Irish fights at faiis are much worse than the Lancashire scratching and biting matches, where noses are literally bitten off and pockettcd, and where eyes are gouged! Truati/. — An Irish trusty is a frieze great coat of uncommon thickness. Arthur Youno: lias well observed, that though w^oollen is no longer the staple manufacture of Ireland, yet an Irishman of the lower class generally carries about with him twice as much woo] as is worn bv anEn-jrlishman of the same rank. P. 123. ^^ Je??i. ' If I hud not such a ' Zinje, 1 might be bad enough* Tim. ' / suppose Rose advises you a great ' deal: Jem. * No, she uevcr said Jiiuch to me ' about my misbehaviour at the worst of times; * but when I came home she was always sure * to be in the way, to look pleasantly, to have ' the cabin foor clean, and the ashes swept up, *• and to have my bit laid out so neat and so * comfortable, that I liked home better than * am/ other place.* Tliis reminds us agreeably of a passage in Allan Ramsay's * Gentle Shepherd'; but of the insidious compliment to his own sex, which that author has been pleased to put into ihe mouth of his heroine, \vc find no trace in our authoress. His Pee:2:v's bold assertion, that, ' whenever men slight their ' wives, 'tis tea to one the wives are most ' to blame/ we leave to the candour and experience of our readers, male and female. Pfgfi'f' * Dear Jenny, to be free, ' There's some men constanter in love than we. ' Xor is the wonder great, when Nature kind * Has blest them with solidity of mind. 305 * They'll reason calmly, and with kindness smife, * When our short passions wad our peace beguile, ' Sae whensoe'er they slight their raaiks at hamc ? * 'Tis ten to ane the wives are maist to blame j * Then I'll employ with pleasure a' my art ' To keep him cheerful, and secure his heart. ' At e"en, when he comes weary from the hill, ' I'll have a' things made ready to his will; * In winter, when he toils through wind and rain^ * A bleezing ingle, and a clean hearth-stane ; * And, soon as he flings by his plaid and staff, ' The seething-pot's be ready to take aff ; * Clean hag-a-bag I'll spread upon his board, * And serve him with the best we can afford. * Good humour, and wliite bigonets, shall be ' Guards to my face, to keep his love for me.* It may be observed^ that in the same rank the beau ideal of a good wife is in all times and countries essentially the same, however the dress of the picture may vary according to the fancy of the painter, or the manners of the times. What Peggy was in Scotland, Rose is in Ireland, barring his plaid, and her white bigonets. In France, the same picture, with more refinement and elegance, but with less truth and nature in the draw- in "•, appears from no less a master than Marmontel. In ' Silvain,' Helene addresses 306 to her danp-litcr, who is just going to he inairied, the f jjlowing exquisitely beautiful lines. * Ne crois pas qii'un bon menage * Soit comme iin jour sans nuai^c, * Le meilleur mcme an village, ' A ses pelnes, scs soucls. ' Mais Ifs graces de ton age ' Les ont bientol eclaircis. * I/homme est fier, il est sauvage; * Mais dans un doux csclavage, * Qaand c'est Tamour qui Tcngage, ' 1 1 perd tOLite sa fierte, ' II rcnonce a son empire, ' C'est en vain qu'il en sor.pire ; ' Un regard sail le seduire, * II ne faut pour le rcduire ' Qu\in souris dc la beaule. * Une feniuie jcune, et sage, * A toujours tant d'avantngc! ' Elle a pour clle en partage, ' L agrcment, ct la raison. * Douce hunieur, et doux langagc, * Font la paix de la mais^in.' [tisobviou?>, that MariiioiUers peasants are ,1 centurv or two more relinefl than those of the Gentle She[)her(l, or of our V illage Dia- logues ; but we may observe^ that what is 5or i^ainecl in rcfiiicnient, is lost in strength of expression and pathos. I'he tone of Frenc!) gallantry, it's metaph^'sics^ it's personifica- tions, do not accord with pastoral poetry and viliage life. * Les graces de ton ?ige,' Un sour ire dc la beaute, L'agrement et la raison^ ^c, are ail pretty but indefi- nite expressions, which convey no distinct images. The more ideas and maxims are gene- ralized, the more they may affect the ima- gination and strike the understandings of persons of cultivated taste; but those who write for the people^ and who aim at touching their hearts, must deal in particulars, and must produce distinct individual pictures. We see Rose before us looking pleasantly as her husband comes in, the cabin floor clean, tile ashes swept up, and her husband's bit laid out neat and comfortable. — We scfc Peggy s[)ieading the clean hag-a-bag upon the board, when her good man flings by Ids plaid and staff; but of ' In fc^mme douce et sage/ though she had for her share * i'agrcaient et la raison,' we have no com- plete image ; we have only a general idea. We are willing, nnd plca-icd to believe in SOS her existence; but we take her upon irusf, for we do not distinctlv know what she does, or wliat she says. We hear lliat n)an, even the most proud and untamcablc^ loses all his pride^ and renounces liis empire, sed'iced by a look — a smile of hers; but still the {general homas^e of man does not weio^h so much with us, as the simple evidence of that poor insignificant individual Jem, in favour of the wife, who never said much to him about his misbehaviour at the worst of times, but made his home so comfortable, that he liked it better than any other place. P. 124. *♦' ^ Ever^ shilling Martin got, lie ' spent at the King's Head; and after leaving * pounds and pounds there, zchat does the * woman of the house do, but she takes his ' hat: She takes his hat — present tense — French idiom and eloquence. The story of Martin Coghlan is the story of Timon of Athens, and the Heir of Lynn; and Mrs. Landlady is just the lady of John o'the Scales. — Sec Percy's Relicjues of Ancient Poetry, for the histor}^ of the Heir of Lynn. P. 129. ^^ ' Onions are very good to help ^ out kitchen.* 303 Kitchenmenus butter, or any kind of sauce that is eaten with meat or vegetables, to make them more palatable. Two kitchem^ to one bread, — means butter and milk eaten with one piece of bread. P. 131. '♦^ ' / Tvondcr how you got that ' prdty honci/suckle to grow round your door. * I wonder the children let it grow.' Rose very judiciously gave a slipping of honeysuckle to her boy and girl, to plants and to take care of; and by thus making the honeysuckles the property of the chil- dren, she insured their being vi^ell watched and taken care of. This idea, properly extended and applied, jg one of the most useful and certain princi- ples for improving the poor. P. 133. ^"^ ' Now what need you bother * yourself with so many things.* Bother and fash are here synonymous terms. ' I'll not bother mvself ' is in Ire- land, what ' I winna be fashed' is in Scot- land. — See Mrs. Hamilton's admirable Cot- tagers of Glenbu in ie — of which the public must rejoice to see a cheap edition for popu- lar use. P. 135. ^^ * How could the pig contrive ta 510 ^ get at it?* — {It — Nancy's cap, wliicli it had torn down the middle.) Whoever is acquainted with the pigs of Ireland, and with their hahits of living in the cabins, of which they have the great and little entnes at all hours of the day or night, cannot be much surprised at the mis- fortune, which happened to Nancy's cap. These misfortunes are so frequent, as scarce- ly to demand more than the passing tribute of a curse upon the pig from the ncigh- hours. Last winter a pig of the editor's acquain- tance devoured or destroved the entire wardrobe of a poor woman, who had left licr clothes in a tub at the mercy of the swinish multitude. The Irish are accused of letting their pigs live in dirt, but it should seem on some oc- casions, that this accusation is highly unju-t, as they prefer the pig's accommodation to their own. A gentlemr.n, who had floored a room with boards for one of his tenants, found the pig one dny in sole possession of this rooui; and upon asking why the pig was allowed to have the best apnrtment i:i the house, was answered, ' Bccaase, plase your I 1 ' honour, it lia^ everv convaniencv a n'wx * coulil want.' P. 1 S8. •*' '^ i^ /s Vfry wdl hnoxcn by the ' great jochics, as they call them, that a horse * will thrive and fatten twice as well with * gentleness and nood trtatuient, as he zvill ' with ill-nsa^e and blows, thono-h he s[ot the ' same quantity of food.'' Rose judiciously endeavours to prove to her neighbour, that good treatment to ani- mals is the best policy; this conviction would do more to secure them from crueltv, than any act of parliament could effect, even though framed by the abilities of Lord Erskine. Alas ! Mr. Windham ! This subject brings him immediately to mind, with all his lo- gical reasoning, his brilliant imagination, liis playful wit, with all those various powers of allusion— that superiority of talent^ which approached nearer than any other orator of the present times to the unrivalled elo- «|uence of Burke. What a loss this coun- try has had of such a man ! and at a time when a great man can ill be spared. This is not {)erhaps a fit place to de[)lorG his loss, or to pronounce his eulogy — his friends may o 12 not think it a place worthy ot* him; but, humble as it is, he would not have disdained this little volume. He disdained nothing that was likely to be useful to his fellow- creatures. Had he lived till these ' Village * Dialogues' were published, it would have been the pride of the editor to have sent them to him, and to have introduced their author's modest worth to one who would have appreciated it's value. P. 138. "7*1 heard it from those who ^ have made their fortune by horses^ and ' have the best right to know them.* The best reason to know them — ris.ltt and reason are often used as svnonvmous terms in Ireland [as they are among the common people in England too.] * 1 have a good ' right to be obliged to your honour;* and ' a good right my wife has to be sorry after ' yeesy for your going away.' — * A good right * the boy has to be sick, for he never spared ' himself early or late, any way.' — ' I have ' no riM to thank the counsellor, for he * never favoured me more than another.* There are the rights of things, as well as of persons. ' 1 Jne house had a good light ' to come down; was it not a hundred vear^ 313 '^ old?* — 'That stool had a liajht to know ' me, fori made it every inch.' — *^That saw * had a right to be a good one, for I paid a ' great piice^ and twice as much as ever it * was worth any how.' P. 139' ^^ ' It harelij does ourselves/ Read * does for ourselves' — * is sufficient for our- * selves.' P. 140. ^9 < I was laid out to mahe a sfj/.* I intended to fnake a sty. It may here be noted, for the advantage of those who are layijig themselves or their money out to maht pig-sties, in future, that it will be advan- tageous to make a hen house over the stv, tne warmth of the lower apartment beincr found peculiarly advantageous to the roost- ers in the attic. P. 144. ■5° ' TVeajy cats they arc!' Strong metonymy — Nancy means by this exclamation, that the cats have wearied her, not that they are weary cats. 'Weary on 'em for cats!' would be a more common ejaculation. P. 145. ^' ' I lock np our milk and but- * ter in the cupboard, but it .G:ets a tack ■' there.'— 2ac/ie— taste. p 314 * Martlimas becfe doih bear good tackct * When country folke do dainties lacke.* P. 147. ^' ' And what is in the fr?«- Cruskccn, a little crock or jar — scrapskecn, a little scrap — a wee-she scrapshcen of a girl, the least of all possible girls. Buckcen — a lower kind of buck. See Young's Tour, for an admirable description of this animal. For the honour of Ireland it should he stated, tliat the race is almost extinct. lien is a diminutive added to words sometimes to depreciate, sometimes to ex- press fondness, in the manner of the Italian diminutives. P. 1.50. ^^^Caiilcannon.' — A dish consist- inir of cal>ha:re and potatoes, boiled and pounded together. For it's excellence I could quote high authorities — of it's deri- vation I pretend to know little or nothing, th.ouiih diliircnce has not hecn wantiuii: in the search. Query — perhnps from calc, Scotcli — epu- lis, Latin. P. l.H. -^•* * Cooker)/.' These dialogues on cookery must be un- 315 iuterestins: to all but those who arelikelf to profit by the receipts: but the rich, who can scarcely iuiagine what it is to be, as Rose describes, in want of the taste of nieat, must make some allowance for the different ideas which different classes of people form of good dishes. These good dishes are not indeed to be found in ' L'Almanach dcs ' Gourmands,' but we hope they will hold a distinguished place in L'x4hnanach dc Village. Our author has introduced econo- mical cookery to the attention of the lower classes of people by one of themselves, and therefore in a better manner than it was attempted by Count Rumt^oj-d, who recom- mended his puddings and bone soups only upon the faith of a Count. P. 160. ^'^ Nafic)/. * / did not invent lies * of Kilty ; I oifiT/just mentioned our remarks * to Biddy IValsh, and one or two more that ' had a great regard J'ur her, and so have zee * all: The rise and progress of a lie are here drawn with much truth and humour. The delicate equivocations, nnd tlic salvoes with which the lover of scandal quict«5 her con- science — the pmticular regard fur the of- 316 fender — the love of public justice^ and all tlie various forms which Proteus envy takes, vhen hard pressed, are admirably pour- trayed. So is the cowardice wliich seizes this fair public accuser, when she is sum- moned before a magistrate to swear to what she has said; and the expedition with which she unsays all she has said; and the address iviih which she throws the blame of raising the report upon them that repeated what \^as ' only just said among ourselves, over * Norah Carty's fire;' and, to complete her climax of self justification, she pronounces the neighbourhood to be a horrid bad neigh- bourhood, in which she can't say a word but it must come over again, and harm be made of it. \^'iihout feeling in the least Jbr the injur}' &he has done to an innocent person's character, or thinking of the bad consequences that might have ensued from )ier falsehood, she is feelingly alive to the trouble she is brought into herself, * onJij for • a little sillv talk.' The harm that can he done by a Utile silly talk — the evil resulting from this pro- pensity to raise I'alse reports, is in some cir- cumstances incalculably great. Jn qu'ct 3\ 7 times the spirit of gossiping is busied only about such trifles as Kate's fine shawl and gingham gown; but, when the public mind is distuibed^ this spirit takes a difFerent turn, and^ directed by mischievous persons, pro- duces often those effects, that are attributed to much more important causes. It is not meant to confine these observations to Iro^ land, or to the Irish: not to draw our ex- amples from modern times, we may recol- lect that in England, during the disturbances in the days of Charles the First, it was, as an eminent writer has observed, *" one of the ' artifices of the malecontents in the civil ' war, to raise false alarms/ and to fill the people with strange prejudices against par- ticular persons. There was a certain Co- lonel Lunsfovd, who was rendered an ol^ieec of public detestation by the most absurd storv of his beins; an eater of children. His friends endeavoured to counteract the cflject^ of this tale by comic ballads ; thus, * The post that came from Banbury * Riding in a bkie rocket, * He swore he saw when Lunsforcl fcllj * A child's arm in his pocket.' 318 If I am not n.istaken^ Dr. Johnson, in his lelteis to Mrs.Thrale, written at the time of Lord G. Gordon's riots in London, says, that a report was suddenly raided among the mob of the Pope's being in town: they pursued a poor gentleman, whom they mis- took for the holy father, for no imaginable reason, but that he wore a Howercd silk nigiU-gown: the reputed Pope, in endea- vouring to make his escape from the enraged populace, vvas compelled to scramble over a high wall, in leaping from the top of which he broke his leg. There is such a aiixture of the absurd and ludicrous in these things^ that we can scarce- ly believe them to be true, or fix our atten- tion upon their consequences. But the reacier will become serious diiccilv, when he sees this in anotlier point \di view. In 1792, when the yellow 'iQs^x broke out in Philadelphia, a yor.ns; tradesman in that city wrote the ibllowing letter to a friend : * it is now a very mortal time in this cit}'. ' The yellow fever has killed some ihou- ' sands of the inhabitants. Eight thousand ' mechanics, beside other people, have left 319 * the town. Every master in the city, oF ' our branch of business, is gone.* Instead of 8000 persons, about 300 had perished at that time. The false report contained in this letter \\.'s circulated, Dv. Rush says, through every state in the Union; and the terrour, which this and other similar exaggerations spread, was so great, that it increased to a horrible degree the public calamity. Servants forsook their masters, children their parents, and parents their children; and multitudes perished from the effects of the terrour thus excited hy this false report. P. l66. 5^ ' You are a gcod warrant to ' take notice of any tidy contrivance in a * house.' Warrant — from warrantee — guarantee. This expression has travelled far from it's original meaning, and changed a little oa the way. A good warrant, or a good mark, in Ireland, means one on whom vou caa safely depend, for whom you may safely go security, ^»ancy means to say, that she would warrant, or go security for Rose's readiness to take notice of an)'' tidy contri- Tance. This expression is familar to the 320 lower Iiibi), fioQi their habits of going stcit^ nVy continually for each oilier; joining in notes of hand for small sums, to pay for potato-ground, or what is called conn (corn) acres'^ also from their going hail for each other perpetually, when examinations are sworn against them. They forfeit their bail if the culprit is not a good warrant » They are obliged to pay the whole of the note, if the person with whom they join in signing is not a good mark, P. 174. 5' ' I could begin (making soup) 'in a smaller pot, till my soup woidd earn a * bh one for me.* Here the soup is personified, and supposed to earn the price of a large pot — the savings which would he gained by the soup would in time amount to what would purchase a big pot. Such figurative expressions as these ai^e frequently applied to the commonest things in Ireland. r. 176, 5^ ^ Tim t/u'caUfis to get a bed- < stead.* Threattns — promises. 1\ 178. ^9 « li's yon that makco the nine * si(p of giucL' 521 French idiom — C'est vous qui falt^ &c. P. 190. ^^' I'll thank you for a lock oh * meal/ A lock — a lot — a small portion, or parcel. P. 192. ^^ ' I could not keep a tack upon * the children.' A tack — as much clothes as could be kepfe on by a single tack -or stitch. The editor^ lately heard a. nursery maid in a gentle- man's family call a child to be dressed, vvitk this eloquent apostrophe. ^ Miss Susy! Miss Susy! come and put. ^ on ye: there's the five-minute-belL and * you won't have a tatter on ye by the time. * dinner's up.' A tatter was in this case used merely for the pleasure of employing a figurative term, as the child's clothes were not in tatters; and the child, not having been used either to the word or the thing, could comprehend only that, it was a new name for a clean frock. P. 193. ^-^ It's not so Sign li/ Jem J There is no sign of that in Jem — or, hv Jem's appearance 1 should not think so. P.. 19^^ ^^ ^ More times 1 bought fl;iy..' i' 6 522 More times — ofttimes — poetical. Plain prose — oftener. P. 197. ^^ ' Ml/ dear Bet it/, zchy are you ' always checking your brother Tommy V Checking — finclinjj: fault with. These two dialogues, between the mother and her son and daughter, upon family con- cord, are excellent. In four short pages, thev Sfive the wliole duty of brother and sis- ter ; they point out what each sex should expect from the other in lower life; and show in a familiar, just, and persuasive manner, how each, by bearing and forbear- ing, may contribute to the happiness of both, and ensure peace and ' quietness in * the house.' P. 202. ^5 * J//e spinning match,' (In some parts of Ireland called a camp, from these spinning matches being formerly held in tents.) Nothing, even in the justly celebrated ' Kosiere de Salcncy ' of Madame de Gcniis, is more exquisitely affectionate, natural, ftnd touching^ than this simple account of ;.n Irish spinaing-match. Ag thcic are some readers who be^in to t^3 read a book at the end, it is possible that they may read this note before they look at the text; and, for their advantage, a few specimens are inserted here, which will pro- bably ensure their reading the whole book. The girl, who has won the prize wheel, comes home to her mother's cottage; and in the moment of triutnph, that moment of trial to the human heart, hers dihites with gratitude, even more than with joy. ^O mother, how I'm obliged to you! ^ and Tommy, I'm obliged to you for carry- ^ ing the wheel home for me; I hope I'll ♦ spin you a shirt with it.' Tommy. ' I don't doubt your goodness, ' Bett}', and I am sorry ever I vexed you. ' If I could carry twenty wheels, it WvUild ' not be enough for what you do for me.' IRose, ' O, that's better than ail the rest, ' to see my children love one another!* (This was the hrother and sibter, who had been quarrelling before.) The girl's description of the lady who was to distribute the prizes. ' O how beautiful she looked when she * stood b}' poor Cicely Brcnnan, who ks so ' lame of one hand.' 324 *^ When Mrs. Belmour called us up/ [to give the prize wheels] * I could not tell you ^ h 325 ^•threaclj I might have come off with no ^premium, or have been ashamed to go ixU 'ail/ Every reader who is blessed with the, natural touch, will forgive the editor for. making him read these passages twice over. P. 2^13. ^^ Rose. ^L would have you be. 'constant, and loyal to one anothej." Loyal is here used as it is by. Spenser>< Sydney, and Milton. ' Ilail, wedded love ! by theei ' Founded in reason, loyal, just, and pure — ' P. 215. ^ Mary. 'Affronted! no, in-^ * deed! I will thank you for that advice the ^ longest day I live.' I will thank you — snatches a grace be- yond the reach of art.. The. piu*e English grammarian would here, perhaps, substitute shall for will. But this is a nice point of grammar, which depends upon a yet nicer point of metaphysics. The most authori- tative and intrepid of our grammarians, in- cluding Harris, Lowth, and Johnson, shiinic from the task of deciding the rights oi shall and Xiill, and leave them to the common law 5^6 and custom of the land. Harris's Hermes, enveloped in Greek, is far above the com- prehension of the mere English scholar; and even when he condescends to write English, it is in vain to consult him on such a vulgar difficulty as this, engrossed as he is by the delicate embarrassments of the aorist of the future — the inceptive future — and the completive future, together with ^ all ' those gnomologic sentences, which may ' likewise be called aorists of the future.' He has, indeed, set himsef enough to do, and it would be unreasonable to expect from him more than the completion of the task he has undertaken; viz. to settle * mathema- tically, by the help of f . . ^^^cdlv _ ^ g^ certain transcendental difficulties about the present nozv, or instant; to sliow when it be- longs to the end of the past, when to the beginning of the future, and when it is * that real and iiidivjsible instant, which, by ' being itself the lerif esseire of the piesent, * dlfluses presence tliroughout all, even the ' largest of times, which are found to include * it uithin their respective limits.* * See Harris's Hermes, 4lh edit, octavo ; pages 116. 118. ^9.1 Lowth, who has not quite so much upon his hands as Harris^ is so good as to say a few words to our purpose; he tells us that tiilly in the first person singular and plural, promises and threatens; in the second and third pe»son, only foretels: ^hall, on the contrary,, in the first person^ simply foretels; in the second and third person, promises, commands, or threatens. Johnson, who, modestly for him, acknowledges the diffi- culty of giving a definition of ^liall, which foreigners and provincials so frequently confound with «■///, endeavours, as he says, crassa minervay to explain by example, that will should always be used to express voli- tion ; and that shall, according to it's Saxon derivative, means oae, or ought — (ought , like the French devoir — Je dais.) So, — to return to my text, of which, in the true spirit of a commentator, 1 had lost sight — it is plain that before we can decide whether Mary speaks good English in say- ing ' I will thank you the longest day I ' live,' we must determine whether she means to promise, or threaten, or merely to foretell ; we must further determine whether gratitude is^ or is not dependant upon voli- 3!23 Uon. The Irish will takes It for crrantcd that it is; the English ^ popular shall*' is perhaps the most philosophical, and the most consonant to experience. Gratitude is most frequently found to depend upon the clrcumslar>ces in which people are placed subsequent to the receiving a favour, therefore cannot be supposed to be a pure act of volition,, noi; consequently a fit sub- ject of promise — ergo — no one (but an Irish ignoramus) would say * I Xiili thank you the. * longest day 1 live.' But if ihe English shall be the most accurate and grain in atical, the Hibernian will is the most affectionate, and eloquent. Indeed, by a happy ' verna- ' cular instinct,^ as Lowth calls it, the Iiish generally find the most eloquent expressions of their feelings. The lower class of people in Ireland, (strange as the assertion ma> sound,) whea they do speak Eugli&h, speak better Englisli than the English themselves of the same rank, in Lancashire, Somersetshire, and Devonbhire. ^ ct the prejudice agains^ Irish barbarism prevails so far^ that fre-. ^^ Shakspcare. 329 quently English servants, when they cleiga to visit Ireland, reprehend the natives for not speaking bad English. For instance, very lately an English housekeeper heard an Irish housemaid say, * I am going to the '■fair:' 'lam!' repeated the housekeeper scornfully, ' What do you mean hy I am'^ ^ you should say / bees going, or I are going, ' child/ P. 221. ^9< There's all the differ in the ' world.* D/^er— difference ; a difference, and of course a differ, sometimes means a quarrel; quarrels often arising in Ireland^ as else- where, from differences of opinion^ taste, and interest. Shakspeare and Tillotson use difference for debate, controversy, quarrel. Splitti?ig the difference is the manner in which disputes about property are usually I'econciled at reference. This is explaining tiie unknown by the unknown. Then jiift the case, the case were your ozcn! — still at a loss for my meaning? — then, in plain Eng- lish, suppose that you had the misfortune of having a neighbour who had cheated you out of a thousand pounds, to which you thought your right as clear as day; but, to 330 avoid the further misfortune of losing ano- ther thousand pounds at law, in endeavour- ing to recover the first, you agree to refer the husincss to the judgment of any two honest neighbours, and declare you will abide by their decision. Then you have agreed to a reference; and this is a^aimt you afterwards, if you go to law. And what do you gain by j'our reference? the referees, without considering your rights or your wrongs, that ihey may not be said to be partial, and that they may not make ill will, and ill blood between gentlemen, and that they may do according to the custom of the country, determine to split the differ- ence; half of a thousand pounds is in this case adjudged to be your due. Perhaps even this is better than going to law. P. 223. * The CoW'poik: '° ' 'Sow Rose, I zvouder at i/ou, to ght ' your ozi'n cliridian child the disorder of a * beast,* This prejudice is well put, and afterwards well combatted. It is alwavs best to meet the full force of a |>opiilar projudire, and not to be afraid to place it in the stron2:rst light, and the strw>njOit languai^s io which 331 the people tlieiiiselves would put it; then there is nothing left to be whispered. What has been said by Bacon of envy, may be applied to popular prejudice; it is like the basilisk, if you seize it first, you kill it; if it seize you first, it kills you. P. 227. 71 < O RosCf Rose! Ixcas bewitch' * cd not to take your advice (about the cow- pock). O, my little darling! I can do tio^ * thing for thinking of him; and I think I ' see his little curly head every hour in the * day, O, Rose, Rose, what shall I do^P This pathetic speech, from tlie mother who has lost her child by her own negli- gence, may save the life of hundreds; for how many parents are there, who, incapable of listening to reason, may yet be struck by pathos. P. 227. '' ' Ah poor Nancy, I zoon't hid * you not fret, jor you cant hut fret,' Right, to avoid ail vain and exasperating attempts to ' charm ache with air, and ^ agony with words.* Right, to endeavour to turn the mother's attention from the dead to the living child, whom htr a&sistaace might yet be in time %o $avc. 332 F. 231. '' ' And while we behave ourselves * welly no one dares meddle zcith us^ not the * king himse/J'f as great a man as he is.* This is the way to raise * A bold yeomanry, a country's pride.' All true friends to the British empire wilt TV'ish to raise in Ireland that English spirit of independence, which maintains, that < every man's house is his castle,* which scorns to open a gate, even for his Majesty, imless his Majesty (God bless him!) axes civiL The more every man is made to think and feel that his house is his castle, the more zealous he will be in tlie defence of his castle, the more attached to ' that ' dear hut, his liome.' This just spirit of independence is far, very far different fion> a discontented, disaffected temper; far moie safe to trust, as well as more pleasant to see, than the sneakins:, crincrina;, ' As vour ho- * nour plases.' — ' Sure whatever your ho- ' nour decrees me.' — ' I'll leave it all to ' your honour.' — * It is not for the likes of * us to be speaking to your honour's honour. ^ I'd let your lioiiour walk over me, before 'I'd say a word, good or bad.' p. 237. 7* '' Why do you look so woiv- ■" derfui?' So wonderful — so full of wonder — so much surprised. P. 23S. "''^^ Id never deny it. I think it ' is no roguery to take a hit of victuals, or a ^ few sods of turf. This laxity of principle, in cases where what is called common honesty is con- cerned, is found but too frequentl}^ in Nancy's class of life. The nice distinction she makes between stealing money, and taking commodities, is here well introduced, and is combatted in the best manner pos* sible by Rose. Opinion is often more powerful than law. To make such petty thefts discreditable, ^vill prove a more effectual mode of prevention than any which the utmost care of supe- riors, or the utmost severity of prosecutions and of penal statutes could devise. There cannot be more generous spirits, more grate- ful dispositions to work upon, than those of the Irish, when they are kindly treated ; and -in cases where they think their honour con- ' when it is, alas, incu- rable! when it has })roceeded to those overt acts, v»hich are branded with irremediable shame, or punished by ignominious death. P. 244. 76 The fire. This is a striking, yet natural catastrophe, brought about by probable means ; by means, alas, too likely to occur! The various con- tradictory reports about the damage done by the fire, about the loss of all Squire Nes- 535 bitt's fine horses, and the burning to death of one of his children, are all circumstances so well imagined, that they appear to be exactly drawn from fact. P. 247. ' The Fever.' 77 * 1 ow know it is said that the first time * one is bled it will cure the disorder^ let it he * what it wifl.* This is a curious medical prejudice, which, with the assistance of such persons as Dick Fahy the horse-doctor, and Madgy Doran the old woman apothecary, (characters which are to be found in every village) have doubtless carried off as many patients as ever fell victims to Dr. Sangrado, in all his zeal for phlebotomy. * Madge Doran lid me give him narm ale ' with a little liquor in it, to rise his heart.' And warm ale, no doubt, has done full as much busmess in it's day, as ever was done by warm water. Rose. ' But why have you such a load * of bed clothes upon him?' How many rebel patients have perished under the mountains of clothes thrown upon them! as many as ever fell harnessed to the triumphal car ojaniimoni/. 356 Nancy. ' Ai first you could hardly turft ' round you, llw? room was so full.' The wliole scene in the sick room, th<» influx and reflux of the idle and gossiping neighbours^ who crowd round the feverish man's bed, excluding the air and light, talking, and striving to make him talk, to keep up his spirits; then all seized with a panic the moment they hear the name of a feter, deserting the hon-^e, and leaving the wife to sit crying over him from morning till night; all this is strongly and faithfully drawn. It would be useful to collect and note down tlie popular medical superstitions that prevail in this country. There are many which may be traced to some cause, reasonable or unreasonable; but there arc others which appear utterly unaccountable, and mock the systematic ingenuity of man. For instance, it is a popular opinion, that no one can die upon a bed in which there are the feathers of anv wild fowl. In con- sequence of this belief, upon the slightest suspicion that there is a single feather of a wi!d