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From Chambers' Journal. visibly look out of the same.” We will HUMORS OF IRISH DISTRICT VISITING. not be put down by the unkind little hits of the “Pacchiarotto." volume, but will “Miss MARTHA, it's Anty Dillon's say his works are not "blanka”of such Molly that's here. Her mother is tearin' records as he enumerates; that we know mad wid the toothache, an' would ye be quite well that he is “man's lover” not afther givin' her the laste taste in life of his hater; that he makes it his business jam, she says, if you plaze, to take the to promote peace, not “stir up strife” in stang out of her mouth, an' help her swalthe world; that he has a singular power ley the bit o' bread? She hasn't slep' or of seeing beauty in the ugliest things of et' for two days." the earth ; that nothing that is part of a “Miss Ellen has gone out with the great whole is “small to him; that he keys, and won't be back till after the Bible does own a “ Lord of all," and doubtless class.” strives to pay that Lord " his duty.” “Shure, I tould her that, miss, an' she

If we were forced to look upon his says she'll come agin bime-by.” utterances respecting God's dealings with Jam for toothache!” I exclaimed. man, and man's relation to God, to his Yes; it is a grand specific,” said Mar. fellow, to his aspirations, to his work as tha drily, "especially in families where nothing but “dramatic simulations,” then there are children. There is an epidemic evidently we must regard him as a great of toothache this spring. Last year it thinker and dramatist, but no longer as a was influenza, till I began to give black teacher, for surely no man can be called currant vinegar instead of jam. But vin. a teacher who does not intentionally try to egar won't do for the teeth, you know. impart views that are his own. And we And now I am sorry I must leave you for cannot afford to give him up as a teacher an hour; one of my old women is dying, in these days when signs are not wanting and another has sent to say she is 'down. that England is ripe for another kind of hearted,' and wants to see me particuintellectual guidance than that which she larly.” has welcomed for many a long year. Ma. May I go with you? I would like it, dame de Staël says of men of genius that if they don't mind.” they are toujours contemporains des “Oh, they will be delighted to see a siècles futurs par leurs pensées,” and this strange lady. But I am afraid you will fact combined with the truth contained in find it lugubrious. Their talk will be all Mr. Browning's own line in “The Death in about death and the grave, this time. the Desert," that “none can learn except However, it will be characteristic, and the already taught,” explains the small possibly amusing ; so, come along.” appreciation with which his works were “You see,” said my friend as we set received whilst the morbid, unsatisfied, out, “the Roman Catholics are as twelve introspective, denying spirit was at its to one in the town, but there are a good height, which enseebled the middle de many Protestants for all that — poor ones, cades of the century. But now at last and the archdeacon is very careful of signs are not wanting that “despondency them. He knows them all personally, corrected” is to be ihe motto of the fun and their circumstances, and goes to see ture. Nations like individuals have their them himself when necessary. The parphases, and there is good cause to hope ish is divided into districts, with a lady that our recent tendencies to mourn over visitor for each. We go our rounds once all we bave not got, is yielding to the a week regularly, and report to the archhealthier tendency to rejoice over what deacon anything that requires his atten. we have and use it to the uttermost. We tion. And if our people fall into necessity

now to a certain extent “already or tribulation, want advice or help, they taught,” and are therefore prepared for send for us, or come to us, at any time. more teaching

• I niver felt the loss o' me father an' The best wish we can offer to the re- mother till Miss Mary got married an' maining years of the nineteenth century wint away,' said an old woman to me is ihat future historians may be able to once, speaking of one of us who had left say of it that whereas Clough and Mat. the town. They often tell me I am like a tnew Arnold embodied the philosophical mother to them. Here we are at Mrs. and religious thought of its central period, Nolan's. Yes; she's still alive, I see.” Robert Browning became the representa- It was the usual mud cabin, the open tive man of its close.

door admitting to the one room which MARY A. LEWIS. served as kitchen, sitting-room, and cham.

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ber of death. A kettle was boiling on the Alongside o' Nolan! Just listen to hearth, and a teapot stood by. "Two or her now! And Oonagh churchyard twenty three women sat round the fire, waiting mile o' rough road away. Shure, it's batfor the final scene. The place was swept, tered to bits you'd be afore you got there, and the furniture set in order; and by Biddy alanna. Yer ould bones 'ud niver the bed, where an old woman lay slum- stan’ the jowltin'. An' prehaps it's come bering fitfully, a chair was placed for vis- to bits the coffin would, they make 'em so itors.

thin nowadays.” 'Shure, you're just in time, Miss Mar- “Ay, ay; I know how thim funerals go tha — she's goin' fast,” said one of the gallopin' whin they get out o'the town;

as she came forward and wel i'd be shook all to pieces, I'm feared, an' comed us. “Yis, miss, she's sinsible. so I guv my consint to go to the cimethry. Ye koow Miss Martha, Biddy, don't ye?" It's an asy road enough; an' what does it

A smile came over the wrinkled fea matther, afther all, whin the good God is tures, and the heavy lids unclosed. in one place as much as another!”

“Now, won't she make a purty corpse Martha stooped down and whispered a if she only looks like that at the last!” few words. “ Yis, Miss Martha, I know; said the woman admiringly.

I'm none feared o' that. But I'm too far “I am glad to see her so calm and gone to spake much, honey.” Then the peaceful,” whispered Martha.

heavy lids dropped again over the glassy “Isn't it a comfort, miss?" cried the eyes, and I thought I saw an added shade woman out loud. “ An' it's the work o' on the gray face. the world we had wid her till yisterday “I think she's goin' now, glory be to only, whin bis Riverince himself cum down God! I know that look.” an' rasoned her into coinmon sinse, an' “ Miss Martha, could you be asther she guv her consint to go to the new cim- singin' a bit of a hymn? That would ethry, quiet an' asy.”

bring her to, if anythin' mortial could; “To go to the new cemetery ?” she was always fond o’ the singin',” said

“ Yis, miss. Shure, she held out agin the woman. it to the last ; said it was a horrid, cowld, Martha hesitated, looked at the still lonesome place, an' she'd niver lie com- face, and then at me .“ Rock of Ages,” fortable there, wid niver a bone or a pinch I whispered — and she began the dear o' dust of one belongin' to ber within a old hymn at “While I draw this fleeting mile. Cart-horses, she said, shouldn't breath." drag her there, or to any place excipt a I saw the pale lips move, and stooped good churchyard full o' dacent Christian down. neighbors. But the archdacon arguyed “Nolan's voice! Shure, I'd know it a tbe matther well. “Biddy,' sis lie, ‘be mile off. Ye're late, man; hurry on. rasonable now. Where in all the coun. It's tired o' waitin' I am. Och, but ye're thry-side would you find a wholesomer the pick of the world for the singin'! place to be laid in,' sis he, than the new It's gettin' cowld, alanna, an' the night's cimethry? - a fine, open, airy place, high fallin', Nolan, an' I'm waried out. Here an'dhry. An' as for lonesomeness,' sis you are at long-last. Glory be to God! he, 'shure, it's fillin' ivery day – it is. Nolan!” Ye'll have the neighbors gatherin' all “Glory be to God !” echoed one of the round you in no time. An' i'll tell you women, "she's gone.”. what I'll do for you,' he sis; if you'll

It was

Had Nolan really consint to go there quietly, I'll put you come up the “dark valley” to meet her, nixt Mrs. Donovan shure, ye know her I wondered, as Martha stopped, and the

an' thin ye won't feel lonely or out o' women broke into ready Irish tears and the way wid her within call.' So thin she ejaculations, in the midst of which we “Yis, I guv in,” said the dying woman I

The person who had acted as mistress feebly. “I cudn't howld out agin' his of the ceremonies followed us to the door. Riverince. There's no denyin' that Mary “Wasn't it well she didn't go back o' her Donovan 'ud be a good neighbor, quiet word about the new cimethry? An' won't an'asy, an niver an ill word out o' her she make a lovely corpse, Miss Martha, head; but I'd rather be laid alongside o' wid that pleasant look on her face? We'il Nolan. A good husband he was to me, sind to the house for the things, miss?an' piver as much as riz his hand to me “ Yes; Jane will give them.” all the days we wor together — barrin' he Sheets and things,” explained Martha was in dhrink an' unconscious-like.” to me, as we walked away, "for the wake,

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you know. They festoon them round the Martha, it's not as if I was a strong, able. bed, and cover over the tables with white. bodied woman. Thin, I couldn't comWe always keep some to lend for the plain whin me time was out. I've always purpose. But here is my .down-hearted' been ailin' an' wake, an niver got more old woman looking out for me. I wonder nor half the good out o' life that others what she wants cheering up for this time.” got; an' I think it 'ud be only fair o' the

“Come in, come in, Miss Martha. An' good God to let me live twice as long, to you, miss. Shure, it's most wore out I make

an' just. You'll ask him, am, lookin' for you.”

Miss Martha, honey?The poor old soul evidently felt ag- “I'll pray for you, certainly, Mrs. Morgrieved. A sickly-looking creature, with ris, that you may not be taken away bebright eyes, and a crooked back, which fore you are ready and willing." showed plainly, as she presently began to “Some payple are quare, an' say it's a rock backwards and forwards on her stool. wary world, an' they'd like to be gone The one room was bare of comfort. As from it; but I'm not that kind. The stranger visitor, I was installed on the worst day I iver had, Miss Martha, I only unbroken chair, while Martha bal, niver wished I was dead. You've tuk a anced herself on a three-legged elderly load off mc mind, alanna, for I'm sure the

Lord'll hear you. He's very good to “ I came as soon as I could,” said Mar- thim that put him in mind of their wants." tha. “I was delayed at Mrs. Nolan's. “Very, very good and pitiful. You reShe is dead.”

member what David says “Och, wirra, wirra! Is she gone thin? “Shure, I wasn't thinking o' David,” That's what I sint for you for, Miss Mar- interrupted the old creature ruthlessly. tha. Shure, his Riverince, he sis, I'll be “ I was goin' to tell you about me own the next. He had the heart to say that mother's first cousin, ould Molly Malone. to me, a poor crooked old body."

She was an ould, ould woman, an' not a “He couldn't say that, Mrs. Morris ; bit like me, for she raly wanted to die. you must have misunderstood him.” But she lived, an' lived, till she could

“ Deed, an' he did, thin – thiin very bear it no longer, an' she bedridden for words — standin' there foreninst me on five year an' more. So sis she to her son the sure. Mrs. Morris,' sis he, “Mrs. Tim one day -- he was her youngest son, Nolan is goin' fast; she'll be in glory an' gettin' to be an ould boy too, waiting before another sun sets cver her head.' for the mother's death to bring home a God forbid, sir!' sis I. “She will, sis wife, • Tim;' sis she, “I'm thinkin' the he. “An' the question is,' he sis, 'which Lord has forgotten me.' • Faith, an' I'm of us will be the next to be called away ? O'that same opinion meself, mother,' he It behoves us to be prepared,'sis he.” sis. I don't like to be overlooked,' sis

“That was not saying you would be the she. “Yoke the dunkey, Tim,' she sis, next."

'an’ wrap me in me cloak, an' carry me “Ah, but it was, Miss Martha, just all up to the top o' the road, till I put him in as one o' sayin' it. A hearty, able, active remimbrance,” sis she. An' he did. He man like him, what thought would he put an ould bed in the cart, an' her atop have o' dyin'? An' sorra priparation he of it, an' jowlted her up to the top o' the wants! He might jist walk into heaven hill an' down agin widout a word. An' any day, wid a Hower in his button-hole, signs on it! Miss Martha, whin he an' «God save all here!' on his lips. stopped at his own dure, she was a dead No, no, miss; it was niver himself he woman. • Troth, an' she was in the meant at all at all, but me. Mary Mor- right of it,' sis Tim. • As soon as iver. ris, you're goin' to die, an' you're not be seen her, he kindly give her the call.”” ready' that's the manin' of his spache.” " I think the jolting had something to

“ And are you ready, Mrs. Morris, if do with it,” said Martha, rising. “Mrs. you should be called next?"

Morris, I can't stay longer now. I will “ l’m not, Miss Martha, an' I don't come and read to you another day. Goodwant to be called yet a bit; I want to live bye. my life out. That's why I sint for you. Good-bye ; an’thank ye kindly, miss. I want you to pray the good God this I feel quite cheered up now, honey.” night to let me live out me full life.”

“Isn't it extraordinary,” said I to MarWhy, you are an old woman, and a tha, when we were out of the house, “the great sufferer, and I should think you clinging to life some people show? The would be thankful to be released.”

poorer and more miserable they are, the "Well, I wouldn't, thin. You see, Miss | less desire they evince to give it up."

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" Except they think they are being will come home, and live with them till overlooked,” said Martha,“ like old Molly her money is all gone and her clothes in Malone. I've heard that story so often, pawn, and then she will expect me to find I can't laugh at it. She only told it to her another place." put me off reading the psalm for her. “ Her mother oughtn't to encourage See! there are the almshouses,” contin. her as she does.”. ued Martha, pointing to a row of neat Here Martha began to laugh. little houses, with pretty porches and gar- mother! Didn't you recognize her? That dens in front. “ ive won't go in. It's was Anty Dillon, who was reported as not my day. They are not very pleasant tearin' mad with the toothache,' an hour to talk to, poor things, just now. You see ago." their endowment is in land, and for the “ And wanting a bit of jam to help her last two years, owing to Land League to eat and sleep! She doesn't look much and other troubles, there has been no pulled down by her sufferings." rent paid. But for the archdeacon they “Wait till l' catch Molly, I'll jam her!” would actually starve. He pays their said Martha, in a tone of good-natured weekly money out of his own pocket. It vexation. is just the same with the Orphan Fund, Presently we came to a neat, white. and Aged and Infirm Protestant Relief washed, tidy-looking, two-roomed cabin. Fund. I don't know what we shall come “ This is one of our Orphan Homes," to in the end; the archdeacon can't go on explained Martha. “Our way is to put supporting all the poor of the parish in the children by families, under the care

of respectable elderly people, who bring Why doesn't he get help from the them up as if they were their own. It people around?”

answers very well. Brothers and sisters He can't. They have not any money. are not separated. They have all the The gentry are most of them living on advantages of home-life; and the tie beborrowed money, waiting for better times; tween them and their foster-parents and the shopkeepers say business is bad. strengthens with time into real filial affecLawyers are the only people who are tion in many cases. Our orphans genermaking anything. Oh! just wait a min-ally turn out well,” continued Martha with ute! This is Anty Dillon's.”.

excusable pride. “ We look after them, A soft-looking woman, with bare, red educate them to some extent, bind them arms flecked with soap-suds, came to the to trades, or find situations for them as open door at the sound of our voices. servants. But I think a great deal of

Good-evenin', Miss Martha ! Won't their future success depends on the fosteryou come in, miss?"

mother. This woman has brought up two “ Not to-day, Anty, thank you. When families most creditably, who are all did you hear from your daughter Ro- doing for themselves in the world now. sanna? I hope she gets on well in her Good-evening, Mrs. Moore! How are situation?"

the children?" • 'Deed, thin, Miss Martha, not to be A bustling little woman, in an old-fashafther tellin' you a lie, she don't like it at ioned cap and a big apron, turned round all at all. She's for comin' home agin." from scrubbing a deal table with free

Why? I heard it was a very good, stone. “Good-evenin' kindly to you, easy place.”

ladies! Wait till I take off my praskeen;' “She's not faultin' the sickuation, denuding herself rapidly as she spoke of miss; but sure, no servant stays in it, the apron, and dusting two white chairs specially housemaids, an' so she give with it. “ Won't ye sit down, miss, notice to lave this quarter.”

asther yer long walk? Shure the childhre “ For what reason?”

is well an' hearty, thank God! They are “The misthress. Nobody can put up away at the school now.” wid her. She doesn't kill thim with work, “No, thank you; we won't sit down but she waries tbim out with nonsical now. You're busy. I only came in with talk about their sowls, miss, as if they these little things for Betty

I think they were on the point o' death. But shure, will fit her.” she's not a Protestant at all, Miss Mar- “Och ! they'll be made to fit, miss. tha; she is one o' thiin Methodees." She was just wantin' thim; an’ wasn't it

- Martha turned away in vexation. “I the good Lord put it into yer mind to had the greatest work to get her that bring thim this day, before the rain place, and now she is leaving it for noth comes." ing. They are miserably poor; and she “Mrs. Moore," said Martha hesitat.

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hear there would not be just half-dead; an', faix, I donno what I so much money as usual this month ?” did or didn't do, thin."

“I did, miss. The archdacon come Tom, if you would only take the himself to insinse me into the rason of pledge, it might be the saving of you." it. He was rale downcast. I tould him “Shure, I'm willin' enough to take it, niver to throuble about it; shure, we'll Miss Martha, if that will do you; but the git along somehow.”

keepin' it is another matther. I've taken “ How will you manage this month on it often an' often; but sorra bit o' good so little ?"

that did me. It was worse nor ever I “Well, miss, you see, Moore has got was, as soon as I broke it.” a stroke o' work. That will be a help. “ Tom, I wouldn't mind so much your An' I had a letter from Amerkay, from going to mass, if you were in sober ear, Judy - you remimber little Judy Grace, nest. I would rather have you a good Miss Martha? an' she sint me a little Catholic than a drunken Protestant.' matther o' money, an' that'll tide us over “Oh, Miss Martha, is it you to think a month or more. An' indade, the other so little o' me as that? And does his childhre will niver let me want the bit o' Riverince sariously believe I'd do such a bread while they have it. They're rale manė thing as turn? Drunk or sober, I'll good in sindin' me things.”

niver belie me church an' clargy. Miss “But they send the money for your own Martha, I'll tell you what I'll do. I went use."

to mass, there's no denyin', on Wednes. " For me

an' Moore. Yes, miss. day night; but I was tipsy - bad scran to Shure they look on us as their father an' thim that tuk me! — but I'll go to church mother. They can't remember no others, this blessid night sober, and with me eyes the cratures."

open. There's for you! That'll convince “Will they like your spending it on his Riverince. Shure I niver was in these children, who are nothing to you or church on a week-day afore, barrin' the them?"

day I was marrid; but I'd do more nor “ Miss Martha, do you take me for a that to show the archdacon I was no turn. brute baste, to have the bit an' sup me. coat.” self an' see the fatherless go hungry?” Tom did go to church that Friday

There was real surprise and indigna. night, and edified the congregation by tion in the good woman's manner. Mar- his serious demeanor. tha felt called on to apologize for her im- Coming out of the shop, Martha enplied suspicion of ungenerosity; and we countered a lively group of girls and boys, then turned our steps homeward.

when she, to my surprise, seized the big“Another trait of the Irish peasantry,” | gest girl by the shoulder and gave her a I remarked; but my companion was good shake. “I have just seen your absent-minded, and made no response. mother, Molly Dillon.

What did you “We must pass Tom Daly's,” she said mean, you naughty girl, by telling such a after some meditation. “I ought to story? Don't you know that?” etc. speak to him, I suppose; but I don't I need not give the sermon which fol. know what to say. He is a Protestant; lowed. Molly looked frightened, and the but I heard he went to the Roman Cath other children interested. olic chapel on Wednesday night, and Suddenly a little boy, with the bluest walked in the procession of penitents. eyes and reddest hair I had ever seen, He was tipsy, of course; but that makes pushed forward. it all the worse.”

“An' did Molly tell ye a lie, Miss The said Tom held down his head, and Martha ?" busied himself with an old shoe he was “She did, Jack.” patching, as Martha entered his little “ An' it's an awful wicked thing to tell cobbler's shop. I stood modestly in the a lie, miss ?” door, and listened.

“ It is Jack, awfully wicked.” Tom, what is this I hear about your

- an' it's worse to tell two nor doings on Wednesday night?"

one, miss?” cried Jack, stammering in " Musha! I donno, Miss Martha. Peo- his eagerness. Martha assented. “Miss ple sis more nor their prayers."

Martha, you told us on Sunday last that “ Didn't you go to mass and walk in the man that made another do a wrong the procession before all the chapel full thing was the wickedest o' the two. It of people?"

was all as one as if he did it himself, only si Shure, I wasn't in me sinses, miss; I maner. Miss Martha, if you don't give was unconscious. The boys made me Molly the jam, you'll be afther makin'

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