Then there is the exaggerating way, or the way of irony: that is, where they find you an object of especial regard with their husband, who is not so easily to be shaken from the lasting attachment founded on esteem which he has conceived towards you; by never-qualified exaggerations to cry up all that you say or do, till the good-man, who understands well enough that it is all done in compliment to him, grows weary of the debt of gratitude which is due to so much candour, and by relaxing a little on his part, and taking down a peg or two in his enthusiasm, sinks at length to that kindly level of moderate esteem,-that "decent affection and complacent kindness" towards you, where she herself can join in sympathy with him without much stretch and violence to her sincerity.

Another way (for the ways they have to accomplish so desirable a purpose are infinite) is, with a kind of innocent simplicity, continually to mistake what it was which first made their husband fond of you. If an esteem for Something excellent in your moral character was that which rivetted the chain which she is to break, upon any imaginary discovery of a want of poignancy in your conversation she will cry, "I thought, my dear, you described your friend, Mr. as a great wit." If, on the other hand, it was for some supposed charm in your conversation that he first grew to like you, and was content for this to overlook some trifling irregularities in your moral deport ment, upon the first notice of any of these she as readily exclaims, "This, my dear, is your good Mr. One good lady, whom I took the liberty of expostulating with for not show ing me quite so much respect as I thought due to her husband's old friend, had the candour to confess to me that she had often heard Mr. speak of me before marriage, and that

ted with me, but that the sight of me had very much disappointed her expectations; for from her husband's representations of me she had formed a notion that she was to see a fine, tall, officer-like looking man (I use her very words); the very reverse of which proved to be the truth. This was candid; and I had the civil ity not to ask her in return how she came to pitch upon a standard of personal accomplishments for her husband's friends which differed so much from his own; for my friend's dimensions as near as possible approximate to mine; he standing five feet in his shoes, in which I have the advantage of him by about half an inch; and he no more than myself exhibiting any indications of a martial character in his air or countenance.

did

These are some of the mortifications which I have encountered in the absurd attempt to visit at their houses. To enumerate them all would be a vain endeavour: I shall therefore just glance at the very common impropriety of which married ladies are guilty,-of treating us as if we were their husbands, and vice versa. I mean, when they use us with familiarity, and their husbands with ceremony. Testacea, for instance, kept me the other night two or three hours beyond my usual time of supping, while she was fretting because Mr. not come home, till the oysters were all spoiled, rather than she would be guilty of the impoliteness of touching one in his absence. This was reversing the point of good manners; for ceremony is an invention to take off the uneasy feeling which we derive from knowing ourselves to be less the object of love and esteem with a fellow-creature than some other person is. It endeavours to make up, by superior attentions in little points, for that invidious preference which it is forced to deny in the greater. Had Testacea kept the oysters back for me, and withstood her husband's importunities to go to supper, she would have acted according to the strict rules of propriety. I know no ceremony that ladies are bound to observe to their husbands, beyond the point of a modest behaviour and decorum; therefore I must protest against the vicarious gluttony of Cerasia, who at her own table sent away a dish of Morellas, which I was applying to with great good-will, to her husband at the other end of the table, and recommended a plate of less extraordinary gooseberries to my unwedded palate in their stead. Neither can I excuse the wanton affront of

But I am weary of stringing up all my married acquaintance by Roman denominations.

Let them amend and change their manners, or I promise to record the full-length English of their names, to the terror of all such desperate offenders in future.

AN IRISH PEASANT'S HOME.
BY WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.1

Jack Doran's cottage, from a bare hillside,
Look'd out across the bogland black and wide,
Where some few ridges broke the swarthy soil,
A patch of culture, won with patient toil.
The walls were mud, around an earthen floor,
Straw-ropes held on the thatch, and by his door
A screen of wattles fenced the wind away,
For open wide from morn till dusk it lay,
A stool perhaps across, for barring out
The too familiar porker's greedy snout.
Thieves were undreamt-of, vagrants not repell'd,
The poor man's dole the pauper's budget swell'd,
A gift of five potatoes, gently given,
Or fist of meal, repaid with hopes of Heaven.

There Jack and Maureen, Neal their only son,
And daughter Bridget, saw the seasons run;
Poor but contented peasants, warm and kind,
Of hearty manners, and religious mind;
Busy to make their little corner good,
And full of health, upon the homeliest food.
They tasted flesh-meat hardly thrice a year,
Crock-butter, when the times were not too dear,
Salt herring as a treat, as luxury

For Sunday mornings and cold weather, tea;
Content they were if milk the noggins crown'd,
What time their oatmeal-stirabout went round,
Or large potatoes, teeming from the pot,
Descended to the basket, smoking hot,-
Milk of its precious butter duly stript,
Wherewith to Lisnamoy young Biddy tripp'd.
Not poor they seem'd to neighbours poorer still,
As Doran's father was, ere bog and hill
Gave something for his frugal fight of years
'Gainst marsh and rock, and furze with all its

spears,

1 From Laurence Bloomfield in Ireland, or the New Land lord, a poem in twelve chapters (Macmillan & Co.) In his preface to a new edition (1869) Mr. Allingham says: "Seven centuries are nearly finished since the political connection began between England and Ireland; and yet Ireland remains to this hour not a well known country to the general British public. To do something, however small, towards making it better understood, is the aim of this little book." He adds that since the poem "first appeared in Frazer's Magazine, the aspect of Irish affairs has changed in several particulars," and refers, with satisfaction, to the increased attention given to them by Parliament.

And round the cottage an oasis green
Amidst the dreary wilderness was seen.
Two hardy cows the pail and churn supplied,
Short-legg'd, big-boned, with rugged horns and
wide,

That each good spot among the heather knew,
And every blade that by the runnels grew,
Roved on the moor at large, but meekly came
With burden'd udders to delight the dame,
And in its turn the hoarded stocking swell'd
Which envious neighbours in their dreams be-
held;

At thought whereof were bumpkins fain to cast
Sheep's eyes at comely Bridget as she pass'd
With napkin-shaded basket many a morn;
But every bumpkin Bridget laugh'd to scorn.

Who at an evening dance more blithe than she?

With steps and changes, modest in their glee,
So true she foots it, and so hard to tire,
Whilst Phil the Fiddler's elbow jerks like fire,
That courting couples turn their heads to look,
And elders praise her from the chimney-nook
Amidst their pipes, old stories, and fresh news
From twenty decent boys might Bridget choose;
For, put the jigs aside, her skill was known
To help a neighbour's work, or speed her own,
And where at kemp or kayley could be found
One face more welcome, all the country round!
Mild oval face, a freckle here and there,
Clear eyes, broad forehead, dark abundant hair,
Pure placid look that show'd a gentle nature,
Firm, unperplex'd, were hers; the Maiden's

stature

Graceful arose, and strong, to middle height, With fair round arms, and footstep free and light;

She was not showy, she was always neat,
In every gesture native and complete.
Disliking noise, yet neither dull nor slack.
Could throw a rustic banter briskly back,
Reserved but ready, innocently shrewd,—
In brief, a charming flower of Womanhood.

The girl was rich, in health, good temper, beauty,

Work to be done, amusement after duty,
Clear undistracted mind, and tranquil heart,
Well-wishers, in whose thoughts she had bư
part,

A decent father, a religious mother,
The pride of all the parish in a brother,
And Denis Coyle for sweetheart, where the voice
Of Jack and Maureen praised their daughter's

choice.

2 Kemp, a meeting of girls for sewing, spinning, er other work, ending with a dance. Kagies, a canal gathering of neighbours for gossip.

More could she ask for? grief and care not yet, Those old tax-gatherers, dunn'd her for their debt;

Youth's joyous landscape round her footsteps lay, And her own sunshine made the whole world gay.

Jack and his wife, through earlier wedded

years,

Untroubled with far-sighted hopes and fears,
Within their narrow circle not unskill'd,
Their daily duties cautiously fulfill'd

Of house and farm, of bargain and of pray'r;
And gave the Church and gave the Poor a share;
Each separate gift by angels put in score

To help a headache, or a cow fall'n dry;
Strong was the malice of an evil eye;
She fear'd those hags of dawn, who skimm'd the
well,

And robb'd the churning by their May-day spell;
The gentle race, whom youngsters now neglect,
From Mary never miss'd their due respect;
And when a little whirl of dust and straws
Rose in her pathway, she took care to pause
And cross herself; a twine of rowan-spray,
An ass's shoe, might keep much harm away;
Saint Bridget's candle, which the priest had
blest,

Was stored to light a sick-bed.

For the rest,

When manly, godly counsels took the rule,
And open'd to her young a freer school,
Poor Erin's good desire was quickly proved;
Learning she loves, as long ago she loved.
The peasant, sighing at his own defect,

Would snatch his children from the same neglect;
From house and hut, by hill and plain, they pour
In tens of thousands to the teacher's floor;
Across the general island seems to come
Their blended voice, a pleasing busy hum.
Our little Bridget, pretty child, was there,
And Neal, a quick-eyed boy with russet hair,
Brisk as the month of March, yet with a grace
Of meditative sweetness in his face;

To Learning's Temple, which made shift to stand
In cowhouse form on great Sir Ulick's land
(Who vex'd these schools with all his pompous
might

Nor would, for love or money, grant a site), Each morn with merry step they cross'd the hill, And soon could read with pleasure, write with skill,

Amaze from print their parents' simple wit, Decipher New-world letters cramply writ; But Neal, not long content with primers, redd "Rings round him," as his mother aptly said; Sought far for books, devour'd whate'er he found,

And peep'd through loopholes from his narrow bound.

Good Maureen gazed with awe on pen and ink, On books with blindest reverence. Whilst we think

The Dark and Middle Ages flown away,
Their population crowds us round to-day;
So slowly moves the world. Our dame believed,
Firmly as saints and angels she received,
In witchcraft, lucky and unlucky times,
Omens and charms, and fairy-doctors' rhymes

VOL. IV.

Sweet-temper'd, dutiful, as maid and wife;
Her husband's wisdom from her heart admired,
And in her children's praises never tired.

Jack was a plodding man, who deem'd it best
To hide away the wisdom he possess'd;
Of scanty words, avoiding all dispute;
But much experience in his mind had root;
Most deferential, yet you might surprise
A secret scanning in the small gray eyes;
Short, active, though with labour's trudge, his
legs;

His knotted fingers, like rude wooden pegs,
Still firm of grip; his breath was slow and deep;
His hair unbleach'd with time, a rough black
heap.

Fond, of a night, to calmly sit and smoke,
While neighbours plied their argument or joke,
To each he listen'd, seldom praised or blamed,
All party-spirit prudently disclaim'd,
Repeating, with his wise old wrinkled face,
"I never knew it help a poor man's case;"
And when they talk'd of "tyrants," Doran said
Nothing, but suck'd his pipe and shook his head.

In patient combat with a barren soil,
Jack saw the gradual tilth reward his toil,
Where first his father as a cottier came
On patch too poor for other man to claim.
Jack's father kept the hut against the hill
With daily eight pence earned by sweat and skill;
Three sons grew up; one hasted over sea,
One married soon, fought hard with poverty,
Sunk, and died young; the eldest boy was Jack,
Young herd and spadesman at his father's back,
With every hardship sturdily he strove,
To fair or distant ship fat cattle drove,
(Not theirs, his father had a single cow),
And cross'd the narrow tides to reap and mow.
A fever burn'd away the old man's life;
Jack had the land, the hovel, and a wife;
And in the chimney's warmest corner sat
His good old mother, with her favourite cat.

Manus, now dead (long since, on "cottier-take," Allow'd cheap lodgment for his labour's sake),

87

Contriving days and odd half-days to snatch,
By slow degrees had tamed the savage patch
Beside his hut, driven back the stubborn gorse,
Whose pounded prickles meanwhile fed his
horse;

And crown'd the cut-out bog with many a sheaf
Of speckled oats, and spread the dark-green leaf
Where plaited white or purple blooms unfold
To look on summer with an eye of gold,
Potato-blossoms, namely. Now, be sure,
A larger rent was paid; nor, if secure
Of foot-sole place where painfully he wrought,
Would Manus grumble. Year by year he sought
A safeguard; but the Landlord still referr'd
Smoothly to Agent, Agent merely heard,
And answer'd-"We'll arrange it by-and-by;
Meanwhile, you're well enough, man; let it
lie,"

Resolved to grant no other petty lease,
The ills of petty farming to increase.
Old Manus gone, and Bloomfield's father gone,
Sir Ulick Harvey's guardian rule came on;
And so at last Jack found his little all
At Viceroy Pigot's mercy, which was small.
With more than passive discontent he look'd
On tenancies like Jack's, and ill had brook'd
The whisper of their gains. He stood one day,
Filling the petty household with dismay,
Within their hut, and saw that Paudeen Dhu,

The bailiff, when he called it "snug," spoke

true.

The patch'd, unpainted, but substantial door,
The well-fill'd dresser, and the level floor,
Clean chairs and stools, a gaily-quilted bed,
The weather-fast though grimy thatch o'erhead,
The fishing rods and reels above the fire,
Neal's books, and comely Bridget's neat attire,
Express'd a comfort which the rough neglect
That reign'd outside forbade him to expect.
Indeed, give shrewd old cautious Jack his way,
The house within had shown less neat array,
Who held the maxim that, in prosperous case,
"Tis wise to show a miserable face;

A decent hat, a wife's good shawl or gown
For higher rent may mark the farmer down;
Beside your window shun to plant a rose
Lest it should draw the prowling bailiff's nose,
Nor deal with whitewash, lest the cottage lie
A target for the bullet of his eye;

Rude be your fence and field-if trig and trim
A cottier shows them, all the worse for him.
To scrape, beyond expenses, if he can,

A silent stealthy penny, is the plan
Of him who dares it-a suspected man!
With tedious, endless, heavy-laden toil,

Judged to have thieved a pittance from the soil.

But close in reach of Bridget's busy hand
Dirt and untidiness could scarcely stand;

| And Neal, despite his father's sense of guilt,
A dairy and a gable-room had built,
And by degrees the common kitchen graced
With many a touch of his superior taste.

The peasant draws a low and toilsome lot;
Poorer than all above him?-surely not.
Conscious of useful strength, untaught to care
For smiling masquerade and dainty fare,
With social pleasures, warmer if less blaud,
Companionship and converse nigh at hand,
If sad, with genuine sorrows, well-defined,
His life brought closer to a simpler mind;
He's friends with earth and cloud, plant, beast,
and bird;

His glance, by oversubtleties unblurr'd,
At human nature, flies not much astray;
Afoot he journeys but enjoys the way.
Th' instinctive faith, perhaps, of such holds best
To that ideal truth, the power and zest
Of all appearance; limitation keeps
Their souls compact; light cares they have,
sound sleeps;

Their day, within a settled course begun,
Brings wholesome task, advancing with the sun,
The sure result with satisfaction sees,

And fills with calm a well-earn'd hour of ease. Nay, gold, whose mere possession less avails, Far-glittering, decks the world with fairy-tales Who grasp at poison, trigger, cord, or knife?-Seldom the poorest peasant tires of life.

Mark the great evil of a low estate; Not Poverty, but Slavery,--one man's fate Too much at mercy of another's will. Doran has prosper'd, but is trembling still. Our Agent's lightest word his heart can shake, The Bailiff's bushy eyebrow bids him quake

LUCY.

She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove,

A maid whom there were none to praise, And very few to love.

A violet by a mossy stone
Half-hidden from the eye
-Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky!

She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,

The difference to me!

WORDSWORTH.

TOMASO AND PEPINA.

[William Gilbert, born in London, 1806-a descendant of an old Salisbury family. He is a member of the Royal College of Surgeons, London, and M.D. of

Paris; but he retired from the profession of medicine about thirty-five years ago. In literature he has earned a high reputation as a novelist. Critics have repeatedly compared his style to that of Defoe, and occasionally he displays some of those characteristics which most

distinguished Hawthorne. His chief works are: Shirley

Hall Asylum; De Profundis; Dr. Austin's Guests; The Wizard of the Mountain, &c. From the last-mentioned work (published by Strahan & Co.) we quote the following tale.]

On a small farm in the Bresciano lived an old working couple, Tomaso and Pepina. They were frugal, industrious, and pious. The few inhabitants of the secluded village in which they resided much respected them; but beyond it they were unknown. Besides their other good qualities, they were very much attached to each other; and both being by nature amiably disposed, their lives had passed very happily in each other's society. Though not poor, they were far from being rich, yet they did not envy their richer neighbours, but were content with what God had given them. They had but one cause for anxiety. The little farm on which they lived was not their own; and the landlord had frequently spoken of dispossessing them, in order to add the land to his own farm. But something or other had always turned up to induce him to delay carrying his idea into practice, prior to the date of our narrative, when they received a peremptory notice to quit within the space of a week.

By a singular coincidence, on the same day they received this order, intelligence reached them that a cousin of Tomaso's, an old bachelor, who resided near Menaggio, and whom he had not seen for more than thirty years, was dead, and had left Tomaso his farm, with the house and furniture. The worthy couple, late in life though it was for them to remove to a new dwelling, determined to go and reside in it. Many long and anxious debates took place, however, before they came to this resolution. Their principal objection was that they were not acquainted with any one in the neighbourhood of the new dwelling, and that they should leave behind them friends whom they loved and respected. They had but one alternative, however they must remove, or starve; and they chose the former, sorely as it grieved them to do so. As they had heard on good authority that the house left them was amply furnished,

they sold all they had in their old dwelling with the exception of a modest stock of clothing, which could be tied up in a bundle. After a painful leave-taking with their friends, they engaged the driver of a cart, who was returning to Lecco, to carry them with him so far on their journey, as they intended to make that town their first halting-place.

For some time after they had quitted the village both husband and wife gave full vent to their tears; while the driver of the cart, prompted by a feeling of delicacy, pretended not to see them, but walked quietly beside his horse's head, looking straight along the road before him. After they had been about an hour on their journey, Tomaso said to his

'There's little fear of that," said Pepina; "our happiness will be, in a great measure, in our own hands. I have no doubt we shall be as happy in the new house as we have been in the one we have left.”

"It will be no fault of mine if we are not," said Tomaso.

"That I know," said his wife. "You have been a good husband to me for the last fifty years, and I am sure there is no danger of your changing now."

"Fifty years!" said the driver, who, finding his passengers had so far recovered as to allow them the use of their tongues, had gradually slackened his pace, and had fallen back from the horse's head in a line with Tomaso and Pepina as they were seated in the cart. "Fifty years! Why, you don't mean to say you have been married so long as that."