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                        THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.

       NUMBER 14.      SATURDAY, OCTOBER 3, 1840.       VOLUME I.

[Illustration: PADDY CONEELY, THE GALWAY PIPER.]

We need hardly have acquainted our Irish readers that in the prefixed
sketch, which our admirable friend _the_ Burton has made for us, they
are presented with the genuine portrait of a piper, and an Irish
piper too--for the face of the man, and the instrument on which he is
playing, are equally national and characteristic--both genuine Irish: in
that well-proportioned oval countenance, so expressive of good sense,
gentleness, and kindly sentiments, we have a good example of a form
of face very commonly found among the peasantry of the west and south
of Ireland--a form of face which Spurzheim distinguished as the true
Phœnician physiognomy, and which at all events marks with certainty a
race of southern or Semitic origin, and quite distinct from the Scythic
or northern Indo-European race so numerous in Ireland, and characterized
by their lighter hair and rounder faces. And as to the bagpipes, they
are of the most approved Irish kind, beautifully finished, and the very
instrument made for Crump, the greatest of all the Munster pipers, or, we
might say, Irish of modern times, and from which he drew his singularly
delicious music. Musical reader! do not laugh at the epithet we have
applied to the sounds of the bagpipe: the music of Crump, which we have
often heard from himself on these very pipes, was truly delicious even to
the most refined musical ears. These pipes after Crump’s death were saved
as a national relic by our friend the worthy and patriotic historian of
Galway--need we say, James Hardiman--who, in his characteristic spirit
of generosity and kindness, presented them to their present possessor,
as a person likely to take good care of them, and not incompetent to
do justice to their powers; and the gift was nobly and well bestowed!
Yet, truth to tell, Paddy Coneely is not to be compared with John Crump,
who, according to the recollections of him which cling to our memory,
was a Paganini in his way--a man never to be rivalled--and who produced
effects on his instrument previously unthought of, and which could not
be expected. Paddy is simply an excellent Irish piper--inimitable as a
performer of Irish jigs and reels, with all their characteristic fire
and buoyant gaiety of spirit--admirable indeed as a player of the music
composed for and adapted to the instrument; but in his performance of
the plaintive or sentimental melodies of his country, he is not able, as
Crump was, to conquer its imperfections: he plays them not as they are
sung, but--like a piper.

Yet we do not think this want of power attributable to any deficiency
of feeling or genius in Paddy--far indeed from it:--he is a creature of
genuine musical soul; but he has had no opportunities of hearing any
great performer, like that one to whom we have alluded, or of otherwise
improving, to any considerable extent, his musical education generally:
the best of his predecessors whom he has heard he can imitate and rival
successfully; but still Paddy is merely an Irish piper--_the_ piper of
Galway _par excellence_: for in every great town in the west and south
of Ireland there is always one musician of this kind more eminent than
the rest, with whose name is justly joined as a cognomen the name of his
locality.

But we are not going to write an article on Irish pipers, or to sketch
their general characteristics--we have no such presumption as to attempt
any thing of the kind, which we feel would be altogether abortive, and
which we are sure will be so perfectly done for us by our own Carleton.
We only desire to present a few traits in the character of an individual
of the species; and these after all are more relating to the man than
the musician. We are anxious, moreover, to let our English, Continental,
American, and Indian readers understand that all our pipers are not like
“Tim Callaghan” with his three tunes, of whom a sketch has been given
by a fair and ingenious contributor in our last number. Tim with his
three party tunes may do very well for the comfortable farmers in the
rich lands of the baronies of Forth and Bargie--Lord! what sort of ears
have they?--but he would not be “the man,” nor the piper either, “for
Galway!” Paddy can play not three tunes, but three thousand: in fact,
we have often wished his skill more circumscribed, or his memory less
retentive, particularly when, instead of firing away with some lively
reel, or still more animated Irish jig, he has pestered us, in spite of
our nationality, with a set of quadrilles or a galloppe, such as he is
called on to play by the ladies and gentlemen at the balls in Galway. But
what a monstrosity--to dance quadrilles in Galway! Dance indeed: no, but
a drowsy walk, and a look as if they were going to their grandmothers’
funerals. Fair Galwegians, for assuredly you are fair, put aside this
sickly affectation of refinement, which is equally inconsistent with your
natural excitability, and with the healthy atmospheric influences by
which you are surrounded. Be yourselves, and let your limbs play freely,
and your spirits rise into joyousness to the animating strains of the
Irish jig, the reel, and the country dance; so it was with your fathers,
and so it should be with you.

But we are wandering, perhaps, from our subject, forgetful of our friend
Paddy, of whose character, not as a piper but as a man we have yet to
speak; and a more interesting character in his way we have rarely met
with--a man deprived by fate of eyesight, yet by the light of his mind
tracking his journey through life in one continued stream of sunshine,
beloved by many, and respected by all whose respect is worth possessing.
We had heard enough of his possession of the qualities which had procured
him this respect, independently of his musical renown, before we had met
with him, to make us desire his acquaintance; and on a visit with some
friends to Galway last year, we made an endeavour for two or three days
to get him to our hotel for an evening, but in vain. He was from home on
his professional avocations, and could not be found, till, on taking our
way towards Connemara, we encountered a blind man coming along the road,
who we at once concluded must be the Galway piper; and we were right. It
was Paddy Coneely himself, who had returned home for a change of clothes,
and was on his way back to Galway to spend the evening with a party of
gentlemen by whom he was engaged to play during the Regatta. We could
not, however, conveniently return with him, and so we determined very
wisely to carry him off with us; and this we were easily able to do by
first making a seizure of his pipes, after which we soon had him, a quiet
though for a while a repining captive. “Oh! murdher, what will Mr K----
and the gentlemen think of me at all at all?” exclaimed Paddy. “Never
mind, Paddy,” we replied, “they can hear you often, but we may never
have another opportunity of doing so; so come along, and depend upon it
you will be as happy with us as with the gentlemen at the Regatta;” and
so we trust he was. In a few minutes after, we had Paddy crooning old
Irish songs for us, and pointing out all the objects of any interest
or beauty on either side of the road, and this with a correctness and
accuracy which perfectly astounded us. “Is not that a beautiful view of
Lough Corrib there now, Sir? That’s St Oran’s Well, Sir, at the other
side of the road we are now passing. Is not that a very purty place of Mr
Burke’s?” and so on with every feature on either side to the end of our
day’s journey at Oughterard.

We kept Paddy with us for a fortnight, when we brought him safely back
to Galway; and during that time, as well as since, we had frequent
opportunities of observing his accurate knowledge of topographical
objects, and his modes of acquiring it. Ask any questions respecting
an old church or castle in his hearing, and ten to one he will give a
more correct description of its locality, and a more accurate account
of its size, height, and general features, than any one else. Speak of
a mountain, and he will break out with some such remark as this--“I
discovered a beautiful spring well on the top of that mountain, Sir, that
no one before ever heard of.” His knowledge of atmospheric appearances
and influences is equally if not still more remarkable. He can always
tell with the nicest accuracy the point from which the wind blows, and
predict with a degree of certainty we never saw excelled, the probable
steadiness of the weather, or any approaching change likely to take place
in it. He is a perfect barometer in this way, for his conclusions are
chiefly drawn from a delicate perception of the state of the atmospheric
air imperceptible to others, and are rarely erroneous. On a fine sunny
morning when the lakes are smooth, the mountains clear, and the sky
without a cloud, we remark to him that it is a fine morning. “It is, Sir,
a beautiful morning.” “And we are sure of having a fine day, Paddy,”
we continue. “Indeed I fear not, Sir; the wind is coming round to the
south-east, and the air is thickening. We’ll have heavy rain in some
hours,” or “before long.” Again, on a rainy morning, when everything
around looks hopelessly dreary, and we feel ourselves booked for a day
in our inn, we observe to him, “There’s no chance of this day taking up,
Paddy.” But Paddy knows better, and he cheers us up with the answer, “Oh,
this will be a fine day, Sir, by and bye. The wind is getting a point to
the north, the clouds are rising, and the air is getting drier. We’ll
have a fine day soon.”

The power thus exhibited of acquiring such accurate knowledge of
localities, and of atmospheric appearances and influences, without the
aid of sight, affords a striking example of the capabilities beneficently
vested in us, of supplying the want created by the accidental loss of one
organ, by an increase of activity and acuteness in some other, or others.
These capabilities are equally observable in the lower animals as in man;
but their degree is very various in individuals of both species, being
dependent on the delicacy of organization and amount of intellectuality
which the individual may happen to possess. Thus the power to supply the
want of vision by the exercise of other organs, is not given to every
blind man in any thing like the degree enjoyed by the Galway piper,
who is a creature of the most delicate nervous organization, and a
man of a high degree of intellectuality. Paddy is a genuine inductive
philosopher, never indolent or idle, always in quest of knowledge either
by inquiry or experimental observation, and drawing his own conclusions
accordingly. To observe his processes in this way is not only amusing but
instructive, and has often afforded us a high enjoyment. When Paddy comes
to a place with which he has no previous acquaintance, he commences his
topographical researches with as little delay as possible, first about
the exterior of the house, which he examines all round, measuring with
his stick its length and breadth, and calculates its height; ascertains
the situation of its doors and the number of its windows, and makes
himself acquainted with the peculiarities of their form and material: he
next proceeds to the out-offices, which he surveys in a similar manner,
feeling even any stray cart, car, or wheel-barrow, which may be lying
in the courtyard or barn, and determining whether they are well made
or not. If a cow or horse come in his way, he will subject them to a
similar examination, and, if asked, pronounce accurately on their points,
condition, and value. Having satisfied himself with an examination of all
these nearer objects, if time permit he then extends his researches to
those more distant--as the roads, ascertaining their breadth, &c.; the
neighbouring bridges, streams, rivers, and even mountains; the nature
of the soil too, and state of the crops, are attended to. While we were
sojourning at the hotel at Maam last year, we found him one sunny morning
standing on the very brink of a deep river, about a quarter of a mile
distant, and examining the construction of the arch of a bridge which
crossed it. How he had got there we could not possibly imagine, for there
was no other mode of reaching it than by a descent from the road of a
bank nearly perpendicular, and eighteen or twenty feet in height. But
our friend Paddy made light of it, and remarked that there was not the
slightest danger of him in such explorings.

On another occasion, being about to visit the island castle on Lough
Corrib, called Caislean-na-Circe, Paddy expressed to us his desire to
accompany us, as he said he never had an opportunity of _seeing_ it.
We took him with us accordingly; and there was not a spot on the rocky
island that with the aid of his stick he did not examine, or a crumbling
wall that he did not scale, even to places that we should have supposed
only accessible to jackdaws. “Dear me, Sir,” he exclaimed on our return,
“but that’s a mighty curious castle, and must be very ancient. I never
_saw_ walls in a castle so thick before, and how beautiful and smooth
the arches were! I think they were a kind of grit-stone?” This was added
inquiringly; and so they were--red sandstone chiselled.

But we are dwelling too long on these characteristics, forgetting that
we have others to notice of greater interest; and of these perhaps the
most eminent is his habitual, and, as we might say, constitutional
benevolence. Of this trait in his character we heard many interesting
instances, but our space will only allow us to notice one or two which
we artfully extracted from himself. Having heard of his kindnesses to
some of his neighbours who are poorer than himself, we had determined
to make himself speak on the matter; and, accordingly, when passing
through the village in which he resides, about two miles and a half from
Galway, we remarked to him that some of those neighbours seemed very
poor. “Indeed they are, Sir, very,” he replied; “they have been very
badly off this year in consequence of the wet, the want of firing, and
the dearness of potatoes.” “And how,” I rejoined, “have they contrived
to keep body and soul together?” “Why, Sir, just by the assistance of
those a little better off than themselves.” Paddy would not name himself
as their benefactor, so we had to ask him if he had been able to give
them any aid, and then his ingenuousness obliged him to confess that he
had: he had lent thirty shillings to one family to buy seed for their
bit of ground, ten shillings to another to buy meal, and so on. “And
will they ever pay you, Paddy?” we inquired. “Och! the creatures, they
will, to be sure, Sir,” Paddy replied in a tone expressive of surprise
at the imputation on their honesty; but added in a lower voice, “if they
can; and if they can’t, Sir, why, please God, I’ll get over it; sure one
couldn’t see the creatures starve!” This was last year. In the present
summer we had heard that Paddy’s turf was all stolen from him shortly
after--perhaps by some of the very persons whom he had assisted--and we
were curious to ascertain how he took his loss. So we inquired, “How
were you off, Paddy, for firing last winter?” “Very badly, Sir. I had no
turf of my own, and was obliged to buy turf in Galway at four shillings
the kish. It would have been cheaper to buy coal, only I don’t like a
grate, for the children burn themselves at it.” “And how did it happen
that you had no turf of your own?” “Because, Sir, it was all stolen from
me, after I had paid two pounds for cutting and drying it.” “Did you
ever,” I inquired, “discover who were the robbers?” “Oh, yes, Sir,” he
replied. “And could you prove the theft against them?” “I could, to be
sure.” “Did you prosecute them?” “Tut, tut, Sir, what good would that do
me?” and Paddy added, in a tone of pity, “the creatures! sure they were
poor rogues, or they would not have taken every bit away.” “Well, then,
Paddy,” I inquired, “did you ever speak to them about it?” “I did, Sir.”
“And what answer or apology did they make?” “They said, Sir, that they
wouldn’t have touched it if they knew it was mine.” “Did they ever return
any of it?” Paddy replied with a laugh, “Oh, no!”

Reader, are you richer in a worldly sense than Paddy Coneely? And if,
as it is probable, you are so, let us ask you, do you just now feel an
unusual warmth in your cheeks? If so, you need not be greatly ashamed of
it, for believe us, there are many nobles in our land who might well feel
a similar sensation on reading these anecdotes of the benevolence of
Paddy Coneely.

Paddy, like all or most genuine Irishmen, has a dash of quiet Irish
humour and much excitability in his character, of which we must venture
to give an instance or two.

On a certain day, while Paddy was stopping at Mr O’Flaherty’s of
Knock-ban, the coachman, who was blind of one eye, was airing two horses,
one of which was similarly wanting in a visual organ, and the other stone
blind. A gentleman present remarking that here were four animals, two men
and two horses, that had but two eyes among them, proposed a race, to
which Paddy and the coachman assented. Paddy was placed upon the horse
which could see a little, and the coachman got up on the blind one. Off
they started with whip and spur, and to his great delight, Paddy won.
This is one of the feats of which Paddy is most proud.

Again--We were standing in the kitchen at Maam one day, listening to
Paddy telling his stories to a happy group of young people, when he was
addressed by a middle-aged woman, who, from her imperfect knowledge of
English, misunderstood him, and imagined that he was paying court to
a blooming girl, and representing himself as an unmarried man. To his
great surprise, therefore, Paddy heard himself attacked with terrific
vituperation, in whole Irish and broken English, on the heinousness of
his conduct. Before, however, she had got to the end of her oration,
Paddy’s face had assumed an expression which announced that he was
determined to lend himself to her mistake, and carry on the joke.
Accordingly, when he was allowed to reply, he rated her in turn upon her
silly stupidity in supposing that she knew him--denied having ever _seen_
her before--declared that he was not Paddy Coneely at all, and never had
heard of or seen such a person; and added, that “it was a shame for a
woman with her two eyes to be so foolish.” The woman looked at him for a
while in mute bewilderment, and actually seemed to doubt the evidences
of her own senses. But she gradually became satisfied of his identity,
and, excited into a virtuous rage, she rushed out of the house, declaring
that she would never stop till she told his wife--poor woman--of his
misconduct! And she kept her word, for we actually met her at Oughterard
in a couple of days after, on her return from Paddy’s residence.

We would gladly record some other instances of Paddy’s humour, but our
limits will not permit us; and we can only add a few words on one or two
other traits in his character.

We have already stated that Paddy, despite of his humble condition, and
that loss of sight which would be deemed by most persons as one of the
greatest of human calamities, is a happy man--a happier one we never saw.
He is always singing--in sunny weather, sprightly airs, and in gloomy
weather, pathetic ones; but he never looks or is sad, except when a tale
of sorrow excites his pity, or when he is about to separate from friends.
The calamity of want of sight he thinks of little moment, and inferior
to the loss of any other organ--that of hearing, in particular, which he
considers as the greatest of all possible bodily afflictions. “I don’t
remember,” said Paddy, “ever wishing for sight but once in my life; ’twas
when I went to a horse race. I went with two friends, and somehow we got
parted in the throng, and I could not make them out. There was a great
deal of bustle and confusion, and I knew that the race would soon begin;
and I was a long way from the starting-post, and had not any one to lead
me to it. Dear, dear, said I, if I had my _sight_ now, I might be able
to _hear_ the horses starting. Just then I heard some one calling Paddy,
Paddy! It was one of my friends looking for me; and I think I never
seen men so distressed when they found they had lost me. It was mighty
pleasant; they never let me go all day after, and we were just in time to
hear the horses start.”

We are, indeed, reluctantly constrained to confess that Paddy,
notwithstanding his humanity, is, like many other benevolent men of
higher grade, who are equally blind in this respect, an ardent lover
of field sports, as an instance will show. We were seated at our
breakfast in the hotel at Maam one morning, when our ears were assailed
by a strange din, composed of the barking of dogs and the shouting of
men. We started to the oriel window which commands a view of the road
beyond the bridge for a mile or more, and the reader may judge of our
astonishment when we saw Paddy Coneely hand in hand with Paddy Lee, one
of our car-drivers from Clifden, racing at their utmost speed--Paddy
throwing his heels twice as high in the air as the other--both shouting
joyously, and attended by a number of greyhounds and terriers, who barked
in chorus--and so they raced till they were out of sight. “What in
the world,” we inquired of our host, Rourke, “is the meaning of that?”
“It’s Paddy and Lee, Sir, who have borrowed my dogs, and are gone off to
course!”

But we must pull up in our own course, and not run Paddy down. Let us
however add, for he is a favourite with us, that Paddy is a temperate as
he is a prudent man. We came to this conclusion, from the healthiness of
his appearance and the equanimity of his manner, in five minutes after we
first saw him. “You don’t drink hard, Paddy,” we remarked to him. “No,
Sir,” he replied; “I did once, but I found it was destroying my health,
and that if I continued to do so, I would soon leave my family after me
to beg; so I left it off three years ago, and I have never tasted raw
spirits since, or taken more than a tumbler, or, on an odd occasion, a
tumbler and a half of punch, in an evening since.”

We only desire to add to this slight sketch, that Paddy appears to be in
tolerably comfortable circumstances--he farms a bit of ground, and his
cottage is neat and cleanly kept for one in his rank in Galway. He has a
great love of approbation, a high opinion of his musical talents, and a
strong feeling of decent pride. He will only play for the gentry or the
comfortable farmers. He will not lower the dignity of his professional
character by playing in a tap-room or for the commonalty--except on rare
occasions, when he will do it gratuitously, and for the sole pleasure of
making them happy. We have ourselves been spectators on some of these
occasions, and may probably give a sketch of them in a future number.

                                                                       P.




A BIT OF PHILOSOPHY.


Disappointment--pho! What is disappointment, I should like to know?
Why should any body feel it? I don’t. I did so at one time, however,
certainly, and have a vague recollection of it being a rather unpleasant
sort of feeling; but I am a total stranger to it now, and have been so
for the last twenty years.

“Lucky fellow!” say you; “then you succeed in every thing?”

Quite the reverse, my dear sir; I succeed in nothing. I have not the
faintest recollection of having ever succeeded in any single thing, where
success was of the least moment, in the whole course of my life. I have
invariably failed in every thing I have tried. But what has been the
consequence? Why, the consequence has been, that I now never _expect_
success in any thing I aim at; and this again has produced one of the
most delightful states of feeling that can well be conceived. In fact,
the reader can not conceive how delicious is the repose, the placidity of
mind, the equanimity of temper, the coolness, the calmness, the comfort,
arising from this independence of results--this delightful quiescence
of the aspirations. It is a perfect paradise, an elysium. You recline
on it so softly, so easily. It is like a down pillow; a bed of roses;
an English blanket. I recollect the time when I used to fret and fume
when I attempted any thing. How I used to be worried and tortured with
hopes and fears, when I commenced any new undertaking, or applied for
any situation! What folly! what absurdity!--all proceeding from the
ridiculous notion that I had some chance of success!

Grown wiser, I save myself a world of trouble now. I know that I need not
look for success in any thing I attempt, and therefore never expect it.
It would do you good, gentle reader, to see with what calmness, with what
philosophy, I now wait the result of any effort to better myself in life.
It is truly edifying to behold.

Notwithstanding, however, this certain foreknowledge of consequences as
regards the point in question, I deem it my bounden duty, both to myself
and family, to make every effort I can for their and my own advancement;
to try for every situation to which I think myself competent, and,
therefore, I do so; but it is merely in compliance with this moral
obligation, and from no hope whatever of succeeding; and the result
has invariably shown, that to have given myself any uneasiness on the
subject, to have entertained the most remote idea of success, would have
been one of the most ridiculous things conceivable.

What a triumph is mine in such cases! I suffer nothing--no distress of
mind, no uneasiness, not the least of either: I am calm and cool, and
quite prepared for the result, and sure as fate it comes--“Dear Sir, I am
sorry to say,” &c., &c. I never read a word beyond this.

Perhaps it would amuse the reader to give him one of those instances--I
could give him five hundred--of what the generality of people call
disappointments, which has induced the happy state of mind I now enjoy,
which enables me to contemplate such crises as would throw any other
person into the utmost agitation, with the most perfect equanimity.

About four or five years ago, a very intimate and dear friend suddenly
burst in upon me while at breakfast one morning. He was almost
breathless, and his look was big with intelligence.

“Well, Bob,” said he, with a gleeful smile, “here’s something at last
that will do you good.”

I smiled, and shook my head.

“Well, well, so you always say,” said my friend, who perfectly understood
me; “but you cannot miss this time. I have just heard from a confidential
friend that Mr Bowman is about to retire from business, and that he is
on the lookout for a respectable person to purchase his stock in trade,
and the good will of his shop, privately. Now, Bob, that’s just the thing
for you. You know the trade; you know, too, that Mr Bowman has realised a
handsome fortune in it, and that his shop, where that fortune was made,
has the best business in town.”

Now, all this that my friend said was true, perfectly true. Mr Bowman
had made a fortune in the shop alluded to. It had by far the best run in
town: it was crowded with customers from morning till night. But I felt
quite confident that the moment _I_ took the shop there would be an end
of its prosperity. However, my friends prevailed. To please them, and
to show that I was willing to do any thing to better my circumstances,
I took the shop. I bought the stock and good will of the business, and
entered on possession. My friends all congratulated me, and declared that
my fortune was made. I knew better.

However, to give the speculation fair play, a thing I thought due to it,
I prevailed on Mr Bowman to forego the usual proceeding in such cases of
advertising his retirement from business and recommending _me_ as his
successor, because I knew that if he did so, all chance of my doing any
good would be instantly knocked on the head. Recommend me! Why, the bare
mention of my name--any allusion to it--would be certain and immediate
destruction to me. I knew that if the public was made aware that _I_ had
succeeded to the business, it would instantly desert the shop.

Impressed with this conviction, I had the whole matter and manner of the
transfer of property and interest in the shop managed with the utmost
privacy and secrecy, my object being to slip unperceived and unobserved,
as it were, into my predecessor’s place, that the public might not have
the slightest hint of the change.

In order further to secure this important secret, I would not permit the
slightest alteration to be made, either on the shop itself, or on any of
its multifarious contents. I would not allow a box, or an article of any
kind, not even a nail, to be removed or shifted from its place, for fear
of giving the public the slightest clue to the fact of the shop’s being
now mine. As to my own appearance in it, which of course could not be
avoided, I hoped that I might pass for a shopman of Mr Bowman’s.

All, however, as I expected, was in vain. The public by some intuitive
instinct, as it seemed to me, discovered that I was now proprietor of
the shop, and took its measures accordingly. On the very first day that
I took my place behind the counter, I thought it looked shy at me. I was
not mistaken. Day after day my customers became fewer and fewer, until
hardly one would enter the shop.

Being quite prepared for this result, I felt neither surprise nor
disappointment, but shortly after coolly disposed of the shop, and all
that was in it, to another party, who, as I wish every body well, I am
glad to say, did, according to his own account, amazingly well in it, he
declaring to me himself that it fulfilled his most sanguine expectations.

It could not be otherwise, for, as I well knew would be the case, the
moment _I_ quitted the counter, and this person took my place, the stream
of public patronage returned; customers came thronging in faster than he
and two stout active shopmen could serve them.

Now, in this affair, as in all others of a similar kind, my friends
confessed that I had given the spec fair play, and that there was nothing
on my part to which they could attribute the blame of failure. Unable to
account for it, therefore, they merely shrugged their shoulders and said,
“It was odd; they didn’t understand it.” Neither did I, good reader; but
so it was.

One rather odd feature in my case I may mention. Although I never
actually succeed in anything, I am always _very near_ doing so--very
near getting every thing--within an ace, in almost every instance,
of obtaining all I want. My friends are frequently _bitten_ by this
will-o’-the-wisp in my fortunes, and have fifty times congratulated me on
the strength of its deceptive promises or successes, which of course are
never realised.

In reply to their congratulations on such occasions, I merely smile and
shake my head; adding, perhaps, “Not so fast, my good friends; wait a bit
and you’ll see. I have been as _near_ my mark a hundred times before.”

Perhaps the reader would like to glance at a case in point. I will
present it to him: it is not yet three weeks old. I applied for a certain
appointment in the gift of a certain board. Here is the reply of the
secretary, who was my personal friend:--“My dear Sir, I am exceedingly
happy to inform you that your application, which was this day read at the
board, has been _most favourably received_. Indeed, from what has passed
on the subject, I may assure you of success, and beg to congratulate you
accordingly. Your success would not perhaps have been quite so certain
had Mr S-- been at home, as he would probably support his friend B., who
is the only person you had to fear. But Mr S--, who is on the continent
(at Carlsbad), is not expected for a fortnight, and _cannot_ be here for
a week at the soonest; so you are safe.”

“Well, then, _now_ surely, Bob,” said my friends to whom I showed this
letter, “you cannot doubt of your success in this instance.”

“No, indeed!” exclaimed I, with the usual shake of the head and
accompanying smile of incredulity; “never had less expectation from any
thing in my life. Don’t you see, Mr S-- _will_ be home in time, and
_will_ give his powerful interest to my rival?”

“Impossible, my dear sir; Mr S-- is at Carlsbad, and _cannot_ be home in
less than a week. Neither steam-boat nor rail-road could enable him to
accomplish such a feat.”

“No, but a balloon might; and depend upon it a balloon he will take,
rather than I should get the situation. This he’ll certainly do, although
he knows nothing of what is going on.”

       *       *       *       *       *

“There’s the postman, my dear,” said I with gentleness and equanimity to
my wife, on the morning of the third day after the conversation above
alluded to had taken place. “It is a letter from my friend Secretary
Wilkins, to inform me that I have lost the situation of ----; that Mr
S--, performing miracles in the way of expedition, although not impelled
by any particular motive, came home just in time to support his friend
and, of course, to cut me out.”

It was precisely so. “My dear Sir,” began my friend’s letter, “I am truly
sorry to inform you”----I read no more; not another word. It was quite
unnecessary; I knew it all before. So, laying the letter gently on the
table, I said with my wonted smile, “Exactly; all right!”

Now, does the reader think that, in this, or in any other similar case, I
gave myself the smallest uneasiness about the result? Not I, indeed--not
the smallest. I expected no success, and was not therefore disappointed.

                                                                       C.




OLD TIMES.

BY J. U. U.

    “My soul is full of other times!”


    Where is that spirit of our prime,
          The good old day!
    Have the life and power of that honoured time
          All passed away!
    When old friendship breathed, and old kindness wreathed
      The cot and castle in kindred claim,
    And the tie was holy of service lowly,
      And Neighbour was a brother’s name,

    And the streams of love and charity
          Flowed far and wide,
    And kind welcome held the portal free
          To none denied,
    And blessed from far rose that kindly star
      The high roof o’er the well-known hall,
    The cordial hearth, the genial mirth--
      Has Time the tyrant stilled them all!

    Ay, some are fallen--their courts are green;
          The cold calm sky
    Looks in on many a once-loved scene
          Of days gone by.
    And some stand on, but their lights are gone,
      Their manners are new and their masters strange;
    They know no trace of that frank old race
      Swept off by the tide of time and change.

    These would’st thou mourn, go, trace the path,
          The far wild road,
    To some old hill where ruin hath
          Its lone abode--
    Where morn is sleeping, and dank dews weeping--
      Where the grey moss grows on the lintel stone--
    Where the raven haunts, and the wild weed flaunts,
      And old remembrance broods alone:

    There weep--for generous hearts dwelt there,
          To pity true--
    Each light and shade of joy and care
          These old walls knew.
    With weary ray the eye of day
      Looks lifeless on their mouldering mound:
    Their pride is blighted!--but the sun ne’er lighted
      A happier home in his bright round.

    There smiles, whose light hath passed away,
          Bound young hearts fast;
    And hope gilt many a coming day
          Now long, long past.
    There was beauty’s flower and manhood’s power--
      The frail, proud things in which mortals trust;
    And yon hall was loud with a merry crowd
      Of breasts long mingled in the dust.

    There too the poor and weary sought
          Relief and rest;
    His song the wandering harper brought,
          A welcome guest;
    There lay rose lightly, and young eyes shone brightly,
      And in sunshine ever life’s stream rolled on:
    And no thought came hither how time could wither--
      Yet time stole by, and they are gone.

    And there--the breast were cold indeed
          That would not feel,
    How with the same relentless speed
          Our seasons steal.
    The princely towers and pleasant bowers
      May scoff the hours with gallant show,
    In vain--they are what once these were,
      And in their turn must lie as low.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE BEAUTIFUL IN NATURE AND ART.--In looking at our nature, we discover
among its admirable endowments the sense or perception of beauty. We
see the germ of this in every human being; and there is no power which
admits greater cultivation: and why should it not be cherished in all? It
deserves remark, that the provision for this principle of the creation
which we can turn into food and clothes, or gratification for the body;
but the whole creation may be used to minister to the sense of beauty.
Beauty is an all-pervading presence; it unfolds the numberless flowers
of the spring; it waves in the branches of the trees and the green
blades of grass; it haunts the depth of the earth and sea, and gleams
out in the hues of the shell and the precious stone; and not only these
minute objects, but the ocean, the mountains, the clouds, the heavens,
the stars, the rising and setting sun, all overflow with beauty. The
universe is its temple, and those men who are alive to it cannot lift
their eyes without feeling themselves encompassed with it on every side.
Now, this beauty is so precious, the enjoyments it gives are so refined
and so akin to worship, that it is painful to think of the multitude of
men as living in the midst of it, and living almost as blind to it, as
if, instead of this fair earth and glorious sky, they were tenants of a
dungeon. An infinite joy is lost to the world by the want of culture of
this spiritual endowment. Suppose that I were to visit a cottage, and
to see its walls lined with the choicest picture of Raphael, and every
spare nook filled with statues of the most exquisite workmanship, and
that I were to learn that neither man, woman, nor child, ever cast an
eye at these miracles of art, how should I regret their privation; how
should I want to open their eyes; and to help them to comprehend and
feel the loveliness and grandeur which in vain courted their notice?
But every husbandman is living in sight of the works of a diviner
artist; and how much would his existence be elevated, could he see the
glory which shines forth in their forms, hues, proportions, and moral
expression! I have spoken only of the beauty of nature; but how much of
this mysterious charm is found in the elegant arts, and especially in
literature? The best books have most beauty. The greatest truths are
wronged if not linked with beauty, and they win their way most surely and
deeply into the soul when arrayed in this their natural and fit attire.
Now no man receives the true culture of a man in whom the sensibility
to the beautiful is not cherished; and I know of no condition in life
from which it should be excluded. Of all luxuries, this is the cheapest
and most at hand; and it seems to be most important to those conditions
where coarse labour tends to give a grossness to the mind. From the
diffusion of the sense of beauty in ancient Greece, and of the taste for
music in modern Germany, we learn that the people at large may partake of
refined gratifications which have hitherto been thought to be necessarily
restricted to a few.--_Channing._




A COMMON FROG!


“Come along; don’t stay poking in that ditch; it’s nothing but a common
frog,” said a lively-looking fellow to his companion; who replied,
“True, it is only a common frog, but give me a few minutes, and I will
endeavour to show you that it better deserves attention than many a
creature called rare and curious. The fact is, that the history of what
we call common animals, and see every day, is often very imperfectly
known, though possessing much to astonish and instruct us. Come, sit you
down on this bank for a few minutes, instead of pursuing your idle walk,
and I will endeavour to excite your curiosity and powers of observation.
If I do so by means of so humble an instrument as a common frog, I do
better service than if I were to fix your attention by accounts of the
mightiest monsters of fossil or existing Herpetology, as the part of
natural history which treats of reptiles is called. See! I have caught
him, and a fine stout fellow he is, for I perceive from his swelling
chops he is a male. Let us now consider his place in the creation:
it is in the tailless section of the fourth order of reptiles called
Batrachians, and distinguished from the other three orders by the absence
of scales on the skin, and by the young undergoing the most extensive
changes of form, organic structure, and habits of life. You know, I
presume, that frogs are hatched from eggs, or as they are called in mass,
spawn, which is laid early in the year in shallow pools, and resembles
boiled sago. The peasantry believe that as it is laid in more or less
deep water, so will the coming season be dry or wet. This, however, like
many other instances of supposed prescience in animals, does not stand
the test of observation, for spawn is frequently laid where, when the
weather proves fine, the water is dried up. Nevertheless, its position
does in some degree indicate the state of the atmosphere, as, under the
low pressure of air which precedes and attends rain, the spawn, owing
to bubbles of air entangled in it, floats more buoyantly, and is fitted
for shallower water than it could swim in under other circumstances.
But to our subject. The product of this spawn is in every thing unlike
the perfect frog we now behold. He commenced life with some twelve
hundred in family, a tiny, fish-formed creature, with curious external
gills, which in a short time became covered with skin; and he then
breathed by taking in water at the mouth, passing it over the gills,
and out at orifices on each side, just as we see in ordinary fishes.
The circulation of his blood was also similar to that of those animals.
His head and body were then confounded in one globular mass, to which
was appended a long, flattened, and powerful tail; his mouth was small,
his jaws suited to his food, which was vegetable, and his intestines
were four times longer in proportion than they are now. After some time
of this fish-like life, two limbs began to bud near to the junction of
his body and tail--then another pair under the skin near his gills. His
tail absorbed in proportion as his limbs developed, until, casting away
the last of his many tadpole skins, and with it his jaws and gills, he
emerged from the water a ‘gaping, wide-mouthed, waddling frog,’ to seek
on land his prey, in future to consist exclusively of worms, insects,
and other small living beings; still retaining his power of swimming
and diving, but accomplishing it by powerful exertions of his hinder
legs, which serve him on land to effect his prodigious jumps, of which we
may form an estimate by knowing that a man exerting as great a power in
proportion could jump upwards of one hundred yards. He cannot, however,
breathe under water; and though his skin, which possesses enormous
absorbing powers, may contribute a portion of the necessary stimulus to
his blood, yet he must breathe as we do by getting air into his lungs,
and therefore, except when he is torpid from cold, he cannot continue any
great length of time under water. Observe now his mode of breathing--see
with what regularity his nostrils open and shut, while the skin under
his throat falls and rises in the same order, for as he is without ribs
or diaphragm, his mode of inspiration is not effected as ours is; but
he takes air into his closely shut mouth through his nostrils, which he
then closes, and by a muscular exertion presses the air into his lungs.
Were you to keep his mouth open, he would be infallibly smothered. His
tongue is one of his most striking peculiarities, for instead of being
rooted, as in other animals, at the throat, it is fastened to his under
lip, and its point is directed to his stomach. Nevertheless, this strange
arrangement is well suited to his purposes, and his tongue as an organ of
prehension is very effective. It is flat, soft, and long, and is covered
with a very viscid fluid. When he wishes to use it, he lowers his under
jaw suddenly, and ejects and retracts his tongue with the rapidity of a
flash of light, snatching away a luckless worm or beetle attached, by
the secretion before alluded to, to its tip. The insertion of the tongue
in front of the lower jaw serves not only to aid mechanically in its
ejection and retraction, just as we manage the lash of a whip, but it
saves material in its construction, for it would require much greater
volume of muscle to accomplish the same end posited as tongues usually
are; and it has also the advantage of bringing the food into the proper
place for being swallowed, without further exertion than that of its
retraction.

Look now at the splendour of the golden iris of his eyes, and his
triple eyelids; see, notwithstanding the meagre developement of his
head, as a phrenologist would say, his great look of vivacity; though
his brain is small, his nerves are particularly large, and his muscles
are accordingly possessed of more than ordinary excitability, which
property has subjected his race to very many cruel experiments, at the
hands of physiologists, galvanists, &c. A favourite experiment was, by
the galvanic action of a silver coin and a small plate of zinc, on the
leg of a dead frog, to make it jump with more than the force of life.
Should you be inclined to study his anatomy, you will find ample stores
in the ponderous folios of old writers, who have so laboriously wrought
out his story as to leave little to be accomplished by us. The frog, now
abundantly dispersed over Ireland, was introduced into this country not
much more than a century since by Doctor Gwythers of Trinity College; and
in thus naturalizing this pretty creature, cold and clammy though it be,
he did a service, for it contributes materially to check the increase of
slugs and worms. I have often vindicated the frog from charges brought
against him by gardeners. I have been shown a strawberry, and desired
to look at the mischief he has done. I have pointed out, that the edge
where he was accused of biting out a piece was not only dry, but smaller
than the interior of the cavity, and it therefore could not be formed
by a bite. I have then shown other strawberries with similar wounds, in
which small black slugs were feeding; and I have cut up the supposed
strawberry-devouring frog slain by the gardener, and shown in his
stomach, with several earthworms, a number of little black slugs of the
species alluded to, but not one bit of fruit: thus proving, I hope, that
the cultivator of strawberries ought for his own sake to be the protector
of frogs.

The frog is a good instance of the confusion that constantly arises from
applying the same words to designate different animals in different
countries. The common frog of the continent is the green frog (_Rana
esculenta_), while our common frog is their red frog (_Rana temporaria_).
The former is of much more aquatic habits than the latter, and is not
known in Ireland. I once made an attempt to introduce it here, and when
in Paris directed a basket of 100 frogs to be made up for me, giving
special instructions that no _common_ frogs were to be amongst them,
which order I found on returning was obeyed as understood in that
country, and not a single green frog was in my lot, though I intended to
have none other. As articles of food there seems to be little difference,
but the preference is given to the green frog. The vulgar opinion that
Frenchmen eat frogs for want of better food is quite erroneous; the
contrary is the fact; for a fricassee of these animals is an expensive
dish in France, and is considered a delicacy. Its chief merit appears
to me to be its freedom from strong flavour of any kind; a delicate
stomach may indulge in it without fear of a feeling of repletion.
In this country the foolish prejudices which forbid the use of many
attainable articles of wholesome food, applies with force to frogs. Our
starving peasants loath what princes of other nations would banquet
on, and leave to badgers, hedgehogs, buzzards, herons, pike and trout,
sole possession of a very nutritive and pleasant article of food. When
devoured by the heron, it is in part converted into a source of wonder to
the unenlightened; for the curious masses of whitish jelly found on the
banks of rivers and other moist places, and said by the country people to
be fallen stars, are, so far as I have been able to observe, masses of
immature frog spawn in a semi-digested state; and they seemed to me to
have been rejected by herons, just as we see hawks and owls reject balls
of hair, feathers, or other indigestible portions of their prey.

While on the subject of eating frogs, one of many of my adventures with
the animal comes upon me with something like a feeling of compunction.
When I was at school, it happened on a great occasion that a party
of the ‘big boys’ were allowed to sit up much beyond the ordinary
time of retiring. Finding it cold, it was proposed to adjourn to the
kitchen, poke up the fire, and make warm before going to bed. Proceeding
accordingly, we were startled by the repetition of some heavy sounds on
the floor, and on getting up a blaze we discovered a frog of gigantic
proportions jumping across the room. He was seized, and a council being
held upon him, it was resolved that he should be killed, roasted, and
eaten; and this awful sentence was at once put into execution--the
curious for curiosity, the braggarts for bravado, and the cowards,
lest they be thought so, partaking of the repast. We discovered next
day that the unfortunate devoured had been for three years a settled
denizen of the kitchen, where he dealt nightly havoc on the hordes of
crickets and cockroaches it contained. I have had for three years a frog
in confinement where his food is not very abundant, and he has grown
proportionally slowly, being still of a very diminutive size. Linnæus and
others distinguished ours as the mute frog, believing it did not possess
a voice. They were mistaken: you hear our captive, when I press his back,
give utterance to his woes; but if you desire to attend his concert, get
up some bright night in spring, seek out his spawning place about the
witching hour, and you will then hear sounds, of strange power, which
seem to make the earth on which you stand to tremble. On investigation
you will find it to proceed from an assembled congregation of frogs,
each pronouncing the word _Croak_, but dwelling, as a musician would
say, with a thrill on the letter _r_. When speaking of the tadpole, I
forgot to allude to the fact, that recent experimenters find that by
placing them in covered jars, the developement of the frog is arrested.
The tadpole will continue to grow until it reaches a size as great as
that of an adult frog. This has been attributed by the discoverer to
a withdrawal of the agency of light; but it strikes me he has, in his
anxiety to prop a theory, lost sight of the true reason, which appears to
be, that while he excluded the young animal from light, he also put it
in such a situation as to compel it to breathe alone by its gills, and
afford it no opportunity for the developement of its lungs, and so it
retained of necessity its fish-like functions. As you are probably more
of a sportsman than a naturalist, you have observed in rail shooting,
your pointer, after a show of setting, roll on the ground: if you had
examined, the chances are you would have found a dead frog of no very
pleasing perfume. Why the dog so rolled, I cannot say, unless it be, that
he like other puppies wished to smear his hair with nasty animal odours.
I have now I think worked out your patience; and though I could dwell
much longer on the subject, and eke out much from ancient lore, I will
end by a less pompous quotation of part of a well-known song--

    ‘A frog he would a-wooing go,
    Whether his mother would let him or no.’

And the catastrophe,

    ‘A lily white duck came and gobbled him up.’

Pray apply the moral. Had the said frog had his mind cultivated, and
had he been acquainted with nature, he would not have engaged in a
thoughtless courtship, that could have no good end, nor have disobeyed
the voice of experience, and so met with the fate that awaited him. You
may now go on your walk; and if a common frog cannot interest you, take
care of the lily white duck.”

                                                                       B.




GARDENS FOR THE LABOURING CLASSES.

BY MARTIN DOYLE.


The advantage which the working man, possessed of a little patch of land
at a moderate rent, has over him who is without any, or holds it at a
rate greatly above its value (a common case with the Irish labourer), can
only be fully understood by those who have narrowly observed in England
the respective conditions of the field labourer, with his allotment of
a rood or half a rood of garden, and the workman in a town factory.
It is very obvious that the garden gives healthful recreation to the
family, young and old, who have always some little matter to perform
in it, and if they really like the light work of cultivating kitchen
vegetables, fruits and flowers, they combine pleasure with profit. Here
is something on which they can always fall back as a resource if a day’s
work for hire is interrupted--they can make up at home for so much lost
time--the children have something rational and useful to do, instead of
_blackguarding_ about roads and streets--they help to raise the potatoes
and cabbages, &c., which with prudent management materially assist their
housekeeping.

The benefits which have arisen to the labourer and all the rural poor
in England who have obtained from ten to forty perches of garden
from land-proprietors or farmers, or those who have the privilege of
encroaching upon commons for the purpose, is truly surprising. Much of
this is attributable to the exertions of the London Labourers’ Friend
Society, who, in an age when party violence divides man from his fellows,
and excites from some quarter or other opposition to every system
designed for the common good, have quietly but steadily pursued their own
way.

I have had occasion more than once to press upon the attention of those
who have the disposal of land in Ireland, the great benefits which would
result to our poor if they would act upon the principle which actuates
this benevolent society; and strange though it be, the fact is, that some
landlords possessing estates both in England and Ireland are at pains to
secure to the English labourer advantages which they take no trouble to
provide for the labourer on the soil of Ireland.

I have referred to the _principle_ which guides the society. It is, that
the labouring classes should have such allotment of land as will not
interfere with their general course of fixed labour, nor render them at
all independent of it, but merely give them employment during those hours
which they have at command in the intervals of their more profitable
occupations. I have myself seen innumerable instances of the happy
effects of giving to the labourer or _little_ mechanic even half a rood
of land, which he generally has in the highest state of productiveness,
and from it his table is frequently supplied; while gooseberry and
currant trees, in luxuriant bearing, and flowers _close to the road_, and
without a higher fence than a paling or hedge three feet high, attest
the high degree of honesty and decorum which the habit of having such
productions in this unprotected way undoubtedly generates.

The local poor-rates have in all instances been greatly lessened by this
mode of enabling labourers to help themselves; and if in this country
the compulsory system of providing food or employment for the sick or
hungry poor had prevailed long ago as in England, the landlords would
have found means to guard against those dreadful realities of destitution
with which we have been familiarized. Not that it is desirable to give a
very open invitation to the parish manger, for this destroys the feeling
of self-dependence and weakens the motives to economy and industry. But
there should have long since been more _practical_ exertion to place the
labourer within reach of reasonable comforts.

What are the circumstances of tens of thousands of working people in the
great manufacturing towns of Great Britain, in which no land can be given
to them? Families so circumstanced wear out their health and existence
in unvarying labour--not requiring much immediate exertion of strength,
it is true; but wearisome from its continued sameness, which gives no
exercise whatever to the mind.

The many pictures presented to us of the mental and physical condition
of a great portion of our fellow-creatures kept at the slave-like
labour of the factory, are appalling, and I fear they are true: _this_
is unquestionably so, that children from nine to twelve years of age
(and many _have_ been worked from the age of _five_) are locked up for
six days in the week, for twelve hours every day, in a warm artificial
temperature, instead of breathing the free air of heaven; they are
looked upon as parts of the machinery, and must move accordingly; with
this difference, that while human genius is always at work to devise
improvements in inanimate complications, and to keep them in the highest
state of order, the condition of the living soul and body is in too many
instances neglected altogether. There is a wear and tear of human life,
and an accumulation of moral corruption, which it is frightful to think
of.

When work is in good demand, the joint labours of the parent and their
children earn considerable weekly wages. There is then plenty of bread
and butter and some bacon for the children, and beer and gin besides for
their parents; but nothing is saved for less prosperous times, and the
family is not eventually the better for the short run of high earnings.

The want of a bit of land is more serious than many will believe, not
only in its effect upon health, but upon moral conduct also.

Among some facts published by the London Labourers’ Friend Society, are
the details of the complete reformation of twelve men, who had been
severally committed to gaol for different offences of a very serious
nature, in consequence of their obtaining portions of land, varying from
two acres and a half to one rood; and I may add, that out of eighty
occupants of land-allotments in the same neighbourhood, there has been
only one case of robbery within seven years.

Some of the foregoing remarks tend to show that the Irish poor would not
gain in happiness by the establishment of the modern British factory
system among them, unless the advantage of a _little_ land could be
afforded them at the same time. A proof of this exists in the altered
circumstances of the people who were once employed in the domestic
manufacture of linen in Ulster. These had a patch of land, to which they
could at pleasure turn from the loom and the reel; and as the labour of
their children was not prematurely demanded, they could enjoy the green
fields or the garden, and be employed in school, with a certainty of
substantial food (instead of bad coffee and adulterated tea), until they
attained the age of thirteen or fourteen, when they could take an active
part in the labour of the loom.

When field or garden labour can be combined with factory work, the
miseries of the manufacturing system are much removed, and manufactures
in such a case become serviceable under judicious and moral management:
the present state of the town of Lancaster affords some illustration
of this. It verges on a purely agricultural district, and now contains
both manufacturing and farm labourers. Upon the introduction of cotton
manufactures (and half the few mills now existing there were established
only seven years ago), the wages of each individual workman were rendered
less than they had been before, _but_ the earnings of his _whole family_
increased considerably. Children before that period were burdensome to
their parents, who when making application for parish aid pleaded the
number of their family. Now children are sources of increased comfort
to such parents; and even step-children, grand-children, nephews, and
nieces, who were formerly pressed into the list of mouths to be fed from
the parish rates, are now studiously kept out of sight, because they
earn wages, and contribute to the support of those who would otherwise
shift them off their hands. On the _whole_, those with families are
better off than if without them; and the children themselves, except
in times of very hurried work, and allowing for occasional abuses by
employers and parents over-working them, are better off than formerly.
The comparatively good state of the Lancaster operatives arises front
the circumstance, that in times of difficulty in the factories many of
the work people have farm work to turn to, and numbers of them have
allotments of their own.

In proportion as the labouring poor of any community are deprived of
the advantage of gardens, is a decrease in their health, happiness, and
moral state. Of this, as regards another nation, I have a proof before me
in the letter of Mr T. Bastard, who in a communication from Germany (I
shall only give a portion of it) to the editor of the Labourers’ Friend
Magazine, says, “In regard to the allotment system in particular, as a
mode of giving the labourer ‘a stake in the hedge,’ I have learnt nothing
here which induces me to change my opinion of its value: on the contrary,
I feel rather confirmed in the belief, that where population and capital
exist in a high degree, no other practicable mode has yet been proposed,
so calculated to prevent the labouring classes from falling into the
degraded position, with all its train of ill consequences, of being mere
machines in the hands of the capitalists; or if they have already so
fallen, so adapted to restore them to a higher moral state.

I believe that a much greater proportion of the labouring classes of
Saxony possess some ‘stake in the hedge’ than those of England. … I
am sorry, however, to add, that Saxony appears to me, by the increase
that is taking place in her population, and by her efforts to push her
manufactures, to be approaching the evil which we have long suffered
under in England, that of having the sole interest of a great portion of
her people dependent entirely on the amount of weekly wages that they can
obtain.

During three months of last year I resided in a village at some distance
from Dresden, and in every sense a rural one, the occupations of the
inhabitants, of which there were between seven and eight hundred living
in about one hundred houses, being confined to agriculture, with
the exception of some handicraftsmen, such as shoemakers, tailors,
blacksmiths, &c. and a few who worked in some stone quarries. Besides
two considerable estates belonging to two persons who stood in the
position of esquires, and shared the manorial privileges, the land was
much divided, two or three persons having as much as 140 acres, but
the greater part only from one to five acres, which were held under
a sort of feudal tenure; and all the cottages had at least gardens.
The appearance of general comfort and happiness certainly exceeded
that which I have ever seen in an English village of the same kind and
size. The inhabitants were healthy-looking: their houses were all good
substantial ones, provided (at least several that I entered) with decent
furniture, and they were invariably well clothed. The two latter points
are remarkable in Saxony. I have never seen a row of cottages, or rather
_huts_ here, and very rarely a raggedly-dressed person. I will here
add, also, that the Saxons who visit _rich_ England are particularly
struck with the numbers of persons they see in rags and tatters. I
found, however, that there were several persons, and even families, who
had merely lodgings in the cottages without any land, and these were
invariably in bad circumstances. In fact, they were dependent solely on
wages; and here was the commencement of that evil to which I have before
adverted, and for which I can think of no other effectual remedy than the
allotment system.”

       *       *       *       *       *

IRISH BRAVERY AND HONOUR.--On the surprise of Cremona by Prince Eugene in
1702, when Villeroy, the French general, most of the officers, military
chests, &c. were taken, and the German horse and foot in possession of
the town, excepting one place only, the Po Gate, which was guarded by
two Irish regiments commanded by O’Mahony and Bourk, before the Prince
commenced the attack there, he sent to expostulate with them, and show
them the rashness of sacrificing their lives where they could have no
probability of relief, and to assure them if they would enter into the
imperial service, they should be directly and honourably promoted. The
first part of this proposal they heard with impatience, the second with
disdain. “Tell the Prince,” said they, “that we have hitherto preserved
the honour of our country, and that we hope this day to convince him
that we are worthy of his esteem. While one of us exists, the German
eagle shall not be displayed upon these walls. This is our deliberate
resolution, and we will not admit of further capitulation.” The attack
was commenced by a large body of foot, supported by five thousand
cuirassiers, and after a bloody conflict of two hours the Germans
retreated: the Irish pursued their advantage, and attacked them in the
streets. Before evening the enemy were expelled the town, and the general
and the military chests recovered.

       *       *       *       *       *

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