ing, or of felling, that, would not entitle them to so much as a half of profits; so the master cuts his own timber and underwood, and the metayers are bound by their agreements to cart it to whatever place he directs them, so that he finds them in food during their absence from their own homes. They are bound, also, to work in the master's garden, or elsewhere, upon no other wages than their food during the time of their continuing to work for him. I saw all three of these tenants, or servants, at plough. They were using cows, as most of the people in the neigh. | bourhood do. A little boy to each team as driver, though these poor little ill-fated cows appear to be so gentle as to require but little driv. ing. To each metayer's house there appeared an ample family of well-looking children, but who were running about as wild as hawks, and much dirtier. The houses are furnished with coarse earthenware utensils, and other articles of homely furniture, and, though every thing looks uncleanly and untidy in the extreme, it is, perhaps, tidy and clean in proportion with the habits of the occupiers. Their food is soup as the staple commodity. For breakfast, dinner, and supper, in the summer time, soup made of a piece of any kind of meat, and with an outrageous proportion of herbs and vegetables, is the dish preferred by all. In the winter they pick up the chestnuts as they fall, and divide them with the master, and of these also they make a soup. The bread most commonly used is that of rye, but it is by no means unfrequent, in the poorest spots of country hereabouts, to use buck-wheat flower in the making of bread. This is, however, the poorest sort of bread that is made, and none but the very poorest cultivators use it. They call it blé noir, as we, I dare say, formerly called it black wheat, and now buck wheat. And, as it would be singular indeed to find neatness and care dis

played in the exterior of these dwellings, whose interiors are so, 1 may almost say, filthy, nothing is there to be found in the way of garden, or of any description of out-house. The place seems to have been built close upon the road merely for the convenience of stepping at once on to it; the house close to a well; and a monument of filth and idleness, a dung heap, is erected at every door-way. To look at these places, one would imagine the people a set of crcatures merely thinking one moment of obtaining that which shall prolong existence throughout the next; and yet they possess property, and are a kind of masters.'

Mr. James Cobbett describes the condition of the peasantry in the province of Gastinois as extremely happy. I doubt not but that they are as happy as labourers can be: but when he says that they are allowed about fifteen acres of land, fire-wood, and two cows, in return for their labour, I suspect he has been either misinformed, or wishes to impose upon his readers; for the man that possessed fifteen acres of land in any country need not hire himself as a day labourer; and, if obliged to work daily for another, I am at a loss to conceive what he should do with his land. John has drawn a very different picture. Comparatively happy, however, the peasantry undoubtedly are, notwithstanding their dunghills and earthen floors; for they live under equal laws, pay no tithes, and the peasantry of all countries want nothing more. To those who sing their Jeremiads over Irish cabins, I❘ recommend the following correct and sensible paragraphs from James Cobbett:

"There are no cottages in France. I mean, by cottages, such dwellings as those which are inhabited by the families of labourers in England. If happiness be essential to the existence of these cottages, which have so much interested travellers in our country, and which make us delighted with

country life; these cottages, which form so beautiful a feature in the rural part of our affairs, that even our poets have loved to dwell upon the subject: if happiness in the inmates be indispensable to pre. serve the character of these little dwellings, would not present appearances make us fear that some Frenchman may yet have to tell his countrymen, that there are no cottages in England? I hope, however, that no Frenchman will ever be able, with truth, to say this; for, of all the subjects upon which I can decide in favour of my own country, after contrasting her with that of the French, there is 110 one which does her more honour than that which conveys its idea in the name of cottage. The French have no word by which to translate this name. They call a cottage a caban, which means, strictly speaking, cabin. What we mean by the word cabin is, in English, something very different from cottage. It has, rather, a miserable meaning. We say cabin, when we speak, for instance, of the thing which is made as a shelter for themselves by people who have been shipwrecked upon a desert coast: and, really, the caban of a peasant in Picardy bears more resemblance to something erected under such circumstances, than it does to the pretty cottage of an English labourer, the interior of which seems to court comfort through the medium of cleanliness and care, and in front of the doorway of which you oftener see a really beautiful flower-garden, than (as is the case with the Frenchman's caban) the unseemly sight of a heap of rubbish or manure.

The neat, the flower-garden cottage, is, it would seem, peculiar to England; for, I have always heard of the dunghill doorways of the dwellings of the Scotch and Irish labourers; and I can myself speak as to those of the United States of America, where the farmer very seldom seems to care a great deal about the neat

down her pursuer. One look informed me who the party were. In the female I recognised Lucy O'Leary, an interesting girl-or rather a rustic beauty-and in the other Major White-the prosecutor of Father Roach.

Roach; and, when that worthy clergyman had unconsciously offended against the penal laws, the prosecution was carried on at White's expense.

Though at this period a miscreant of fifty, he had long persecuted Lucy O'Leary-the daughter of his tenant, Tim O'Leary. The poor girl dreaded him with that instinetive horror with which innocence is always armed; and was on this evening about fetching water from the well, when she was attacked by the hoary sinner,' who had lain in wait for her. Though emaciated by a life of depravity, Lucy

would have had little chance in es

This gentleman was a resident landlord, lived always on his estate, and spent his fortune-an ample one-in his native country: yet a greater blessing could not be conferred on the neighbourhood than his perpetual absence. He had been a soldier in his youth,' and fought hard-at least in the wars of Venus. Satiated with the debauchery of a town life, he rcturned to the country; but, want-caping from him, had not I proviing those intellectual attainments which render solitude agreeable, he amused himself in laying snares for all the pretty women and girls who lived within reach of his pestilential influence. The wives and daughters of his own tenantry were the peculiar objects of persecution; and none can know the misery of their situation but such as have witnessed the blessed effects of a virtuous and resident aristocracy.

dentially came to her assistance. The wretch, on arising, stood before me as if petrified with fear: his limbs trembled, and an ashy hue overspead his face. Recollecting his many crimes, my arm was raised to give him another blow; but, looking at his defenceless attitude, I forbore, and commanded him to be gone. The ruling passion' is strong, even in death. A ccustomed to be obeyed, the major, in spite of his fears, could not brook such an insult. Calling up all his dignity, he asked, 'How dare you, plebeian, address me in that manner?'

Bridle your choler,' I replied, and forbear to assume the major here. You are a wretch; and, by the name of my father, if you don't instantly quit this place, I'll serve you as you deserve.'

The well-known chastity of my country women needs no eulogium; but it would be claiming for them an exemption from the frailties of human nature to say that none of them has ever fallen. Alas! virtue in Ireland, as well as elsewhere, is purest in the absence of temptation; and our neighbourhood knew nothing of ruined daughters and faithless wives, until Major White Insolent!' he returned; and took up his residence among us. scarcely had the word been well Partial as his base triumphs were, out of his mouth, when I seized they still filled the aged with ap-him in my arms, and threw him into prehension, and the virtuous with a furze bush; then, raising Lucy pain: Father Roach, in particular, from the ground, I carried her to exerted himself to counteract the the well; and, on her recovering villain's arts, and happily succeed- from her fright, I conducted her ed. Popular indignation and abhorrence forced the major's victims to quit society, while the universal dread he inspired put every one on their guard. Defeated at length in most of his vile schemes, he attributed the opposition he encoun. tered to the exhortations of Father

towards her father's house. The an. guish of her worthy parents knew no bounds when they learned from me the nature of the rencountre which had taken place. Thank Heaven!' ejaculated Tim after some time, with a pious composure, my daughter is safe, and White may do his worst.'

·

CAPTAIN ROCK TO MR. SHEIL.

MY DEAR LITTLE SHEIL-I have long watched over you with more than a father's anxiety-I have fixed upon you as a successor to Curran, as one likely to be of service to your country. Talents you undoubtedly possess ; but, in order to be useful, you must acquire more judgment. Flights of fancy and fine rhetorical figures may please your auditors, but the readers of your speeches, and the observers of your conduct, expect something more-they want to see something like common sense in what you say and do. Undoubtedly an orator, whom every booby assembly consider themselves entitled to call on for a speech, must, occasionally, utter much sheer nonsense; and, I am sorry to say, you form no exception to the rule. But I must do you the justice to state, that no man in Ireland broaches so many sound doctrines as you do; and I have only to complain that they come like shadows, to depart,' for you have more than once contradicted yourself. In future, I pray you to avoid it altogether.

In your speech at Wexford you evinced bad taste, and a want of historical information. You abso. lutely insulted the people by allud ing to Ninety eight, without even the excuse of a point; and, in talking of Fitzsteven's castle, you appear to have studied very little of Irish history, or Irish antiquities. Had you went to that castle, as I have done, you would have been convinced that Fitzsteven never built it; and that it was calculated for any thing but awing the people of Wexford. But more of this by. and-by; for my present address is in

consequence of your speech at Kilkenny. You seconded an heterogenous resolution about English capital, civilization, &c. and embodied the said resolution in your speech.

English capital seems to be to Irishmen what the philosopher's stone was to the ancients-a pleasing delusion. So much non

sense has been spoken in Ireland on this subject, that I am determined to put a stop to it-to open the eyes of my countrymen to the real state of the case-and have chosen to address myself to you, because I think you are accessible to reason, and because I know you stand in need of instruction. I infer this from your speeches-from the admi. ration you expressed for the blacksmiths of Warwickshire-and from your evidence before the parliamentary committees. Don't be offended with me: I have read lectures to O'Connell, and I shall now read one or two to you.

All talk is idle where there are neither facts nor arguments. I have been reading Irish newspapers and Irish speeches these twelve months, and almost in every one there is something about English capital, and all the good it was to do in Ireland. How it was to do this I could never learn: and, therefore, I must show you that good it could never do, even were it possible to transport the Stock Exchange, and all the knaves who frequent it, to College Green.

Systems, whether of commerce or government, are to be judged only by their effects; and, if English capital,' and English manu. factures,' have produced nothing but misery in England, do you imagine they would produce nothing but bcnefits in Ireland? But, as you were so copious in your laudations of the wretched miners of Staffordshire-as you felt ashamed of Ireland when travelling through England-I suppose you don't believe this to be the fact. Well, then, I shall prove it: and, first, as to the peasantry. The following remarks are from the Morning Chronicle;'-and, though John Black is not always correct, he is beginning to grow much wiser of late:

6

The benevolent author of the Wealth of Nations has some admirable observations on a subject which has acquired additional importance since his time-the tend

ency of the labouring classes in an industrious country to overwork themselves.

"Workmen (he says), when they are liberally paid by the piece, are apt to overwork themselves, and to ruin their health and constitution in a few years...

Great labour, either of mind or body, continued for several days together, is, in most men, naturally followed by a great desire of relaxation, which, if not restrained by force or by some other strong necessity, is almost irresistible. It is the call of Nature, which requires to be relieved by some indulgence, sometimes of ease only, but some. times, too, of dissipation and diversion. If it is not complied with, the consequences are often dangerous, and sometimes fatal, and such as almost always, sooner or later, bring on the peculiar infirmity of the trade. If masters would always listen to the dictates of humanity, they have frequently occasion rather to moderate than to animate the application of many of their work

men."

If ever there was a people to whom it was necessary to quote these observations, it is the people of England. They are a hardworking people, if ever a people deserved that character. They task themselves beyond their strength, and bence that cheerless appearance with which the natives of other countries are so much struck on their visits to us. In this metropolis, to which so many able-bodied labourers are attracted, the atten. tive observer cannot but have been often struck with the shortness of the career of many of these men. Like the horses that run in our stages, they are worn out in a very few years. They are literally old men at forty. This is particularly observable in those fine-looking men employed in cutting canals, or in other severe work on our lines of navigation. We have seen shepherds, who, before the general diffusion of the turnip husbandry, even in hilly tracts, led an easy life,

full of spirits and gaiety at the age of eighty and upwards. The English labourer, after fifty, is generally a burden to himself and others. The mechanical trades are not, in general, much better off. Some time ago we saw an account of the ages of the journeymen of an extensive branch of industry in the metropolis, and we were particularly struck with the smallness of the number above forty.

The advances made in medicine, the greater attention to cleanliness, the improvements in our towns, the drainage of the lands, and many other causes, have certainly dimi nished the mortality of the population, taken as a whole. But the beneficial influence of these on the working classes has been greatly counteracted by the severity of their exertions, and in many places by their privations. The stamina of the labourers in several of the southern counties of England is evidently not what it used to be. We pity the condition of the Irish labourers, and justly; but, if their food is poor, their frames are not exhausted by toil, and hence their bodies are strong and their spirits light. The Irish labourer can be distinguished on a road, almost a mile off, from an English labourer, by the erectness and case of his gait; and a nearer examination makes the comparison still more disadvantageous to the Englishman. Early toil, want of fuel, or some other cause, has checked the development of his limb3; and hence, while the gentry of England are, perhaps, the handsomest men in Europe, a labourer in the southern counties, with a good calf to his leg, is a very rare sight.'

He adds that some counties form exceptions; but, even in those he enumerates, he is decidedly wrong. For instance, Yorkshire, Lancashire, and other northern counties, are, with the exception of a few towns, quite as badly off as any district in the west.

Next week you shall hear again from Rock,