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poor Alcey, though she is now in another house, more as an e friend than a mere servant."

Ma'am, dear, they're honest."

but wasteful; and so exceedingly fond of display, that they ler your property to make you look grand."""

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miled, and replied, "Aye, Ma'am, but sure that's the intry-our country, I mean. Might I make bould to them dirty?"

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careless-and then always making one thing anses."

ness of them.”

rular-never time themselves properly. An to the minute; and an Irish footman will want him to obey a command.”

cook, they don't value the eatin'; and their master and mistress for their

agree upon this point, and poor chance of my receiving Matty

Lore commenced writing a letter in over engaged to deliver it myself. This

er's heart, and, on my departure, she made

s of the house, who, headed by Rory, bade me a affectionate a nature as not to be easily forgotten.

The

are keen and cunning, fond of giving and receiving praisesant, but not profitable to entertain; but it is a mistake to suppose that their faults are peculiar to their poverty. The same cunning, the same secking after vain-glory, pervades the higher classes of society; but it is there educated and tempered, and renders its possessors quick, intelligent, and obliging. I wish we were less fond of tracing actions to their motives; it is not a pleasant task, except indeed when now and then we hit upon one of those noble-minded motives that stand out from amid the multitude of littlenesses and the mass of interests that spur men to exertion; then it is that its just proportions, its unity of purpose, is felt and appreciated; and, proud of the moral dignity conferred upon our kind, we try to wind ourselves up to the same pitch of greatness.

When in our wayfaring journey we meet people who are kind, attentive, and obliging, it is better not to feel too narrowly for the organ of love of approbation, which phrenologists say is so distinguishing a bump amongst "good-natured folk.". -There is something touching in the adieus of a troop of Irish servants to those whom a little kindness has rendered popular amongst them. They leave of course their several employments for some time before the farewell commences; they have identified themselves with you—they talk of the chances of the weather, and wish you had remained either until new moon, or full moon, or whatever moon is not in the ascendant; they talk of your mother and your grandmother, and "your people," and wish England was sunk in the sea before it took you away from them. All this chattering occurs at the hall-door, the upper servants being on the inside the lower servants and the combined tails of all, assembling without. Then when you are really going, there are kindly smiles, and many blessings, and

out of it. So, Mother, dear,' says she, ' if the sun that God made can dry up the rain, sure the Almighty can dry our tears; and you needn't think it 'ill be out of sight out of mind with me; and the strange things, and plenty of work, will make me quite another girl.' Well, God bless her, I say; and now, dear lady, go on with the letter, if you pleasethere's the place, you see, where the handwriting's so shakey, and-I don't know-but those two or three blots look mighty like tears-only I hope" (and the poor creature herself was weeping)" I do hope she wouldn't be so foolish!"

I continued

"And mother, I heard from one who knew that that same man is gone away intirely, and that his wife and the children are in great poverty, not very far from our own place. And mother, I do be often thinking of that poor thing that I caused a deal of throuble to; and I mind, that when she looked at me as if she pitied me, I walked away with a proud, hateful sort of feeling, which God forgive! And now what I want to say is, that if you'll advance her a trifle,—say, send her a present of white-eyes, or a sitting-hen and eggs to the eldest child, that she may turn a penny by rearing chickens, or a couple of stone of meal, or anything that you know would be useful, I'll work my arms off my body to make it more than good; but do it dacently-don't let any one be the wiser of it, for she's of a proud stock, though God knows she didn't look proud on me.

"Mother, dear, there's a very fine young man a baker, who's turned his fancy for marriage on me; but I've put an end to it, for I tould him I loved once, and should never love again,-which, he says, isn't the English fashion. I wish you could see the pathern of the things they have here to keep the clothes on the bushes, to hinder them from tearing, clothes-pegs they call them, but they an't pegs, but forks; I thought they were fire-wood at the first going off. Oh! but the English make a dale of fun out of us in their own way, but I don't let 'em know I mind it, for fear they'd make more; sure, any way they'll stop when their tired. And now my love and blessing to every one in the town land, and may the Almighty pour every happiness in life upon you, "Prays, my dear mother, "Your dutiful and loving daughter, "MATTY BRINE.

"P.S. Don't forget his wife and children!”

A woman's heart is ever in the postscript they say, and I believe it; it is so natural to put off les affaires du cœur to the last page-to the last line, if possible, and then dash it in carelessly, as a young lady throws her handsome chain a little over the left shoulder, so-as if she did not care about it, while all the time it is the thing of all her ornaments she most values.

"I hope," I exclaimed, " she may marry the baker, for I assure you that the life of an Irish servant amongst English ones is not by any means enviable."

"Ah, Ma'am, dear!" replied Mrs. Brine, "why don't you have Irish servants yourself?"

"Mrs. Brine, I have had, at the very least calculation, twenty; and out of that twenty there is only one whom I really value, and I look

upon poor Alcey, though she is now in another house, more as an humble friend than a mere servant."

"Sure, Ma'am, dear, they're honest."

"Yes, but wasteful; and so exceedingly fond of display, that they would squander your property to make you look grand.'

The widow smiled, and replied, "Aye, Ma'am, but sure that's the fashion of the country-our country, I mean. Might I make bould to ask if you consider them dirty?”

"Not dirty, but so careless-and then always making one thing answer half a dozen purposes."

"Sure that's the cleverness of them."

"Then they are so irregular-never time themselves properly. An Irish cook never has dinner to the minute; and an Irish footman will give you his opinion when you want him to obey a command."

"You see, Ma'am, as to the cook, they don't value the eatin'; and sure it's a servant's duty to advise their master and mistress for their good."

I perceived clearly that we should not agree upon this point, and poor Mrs. Brine saw also that there was little chance of my receiving Matty into my service at present. I therefore commenced writing a letter in reply to her daughter, and moreover engaged to deliver it myself. This promise cheered the mother's heart, and, on my departure, she made one with the servants of the house, who, headed by Rory, bade me a farewell of so affectionate a nature as not to be easily forgotten. The poor Irish are keen and cunning, fond of giving and receiving praise— pleasant, but not profitable to entertain; but it is a mistake to suppose that their faults are peculiar to their poverty. The same cunning, the same seeking after vain-glory, pervades the higher classes of society; but it is there educated and tempered, and renders its possessors quick, intelligent, and obliging. I wish we were less fond of tracing actions to their motives; it is not a pleasant task, except indeed when now and then we hit upon one of those noble-minded motives that stand out from amid the multitude of littlenesses and the mass of interests that spur men to exertion; then it is that its just proportions, its unity of purpose, is felt and appreciated; and, proud of the moral dignity conferred upon our kind, we try to wind ourselves up to the same pitch of greatness.

When in our wayfaring journey we meet people who are kind, attentive, and obliging, it is better not to feel too narrowly for the organ of love of approbation, which phrenologists say is so distinguishing a bump amongst "good-natured folk.". -There is something touching in the adieus of a troop of Irish servants to those whom a little kindness has rendered popular amongst them. They leave of course their several employments for some time before the farewell commences; they have identified themselves with you—they talk of the chances of the weather, and wish you had remained either until new moon, or full moon, or whatever moon is not in the ascendant; they talk of your mother and your grandmother, and "your people," and wish England was sunk in the sea before it took you away from them. All this chattering occurs at the hall-door, the upper servants being on the inside the lower servants and the combined tails of all, assembling without. Then when you are really going, there are kindly smiles, and many blessings, and

a few tears-and all so earnest and so kindly, that you forget their blunders-their commissions and omissions—all but their heartfelt goodnature-and perhaps, in a fit of enthusiasm, you resolve to introduce Irish servants amongst your own trained domestics, forgetting how perfectly useless affection and enthusiasm are in "a well-regulated English house," which, to confess the truth, deals in every thing more largely than the affections.

Of course I resolved to present Matty's letter myself, and went, for that purpose, to one of the peculiarly smart, neat-I had almost said vulgarly clean streets that skirt the Regent's Park. Nothing can be more at variance than the aristocratic-looking houses half buried in gloom, and excluding daylight as a too familiar object, in May Fair, and those prinky green and white dwellings, where city folk enjoy themselves and entertain their neighbours with hospitality and scandal. When arrived at the corner, I perceived a very prettylooking young woman in earnest conversation with, or rather I should say listening to the conversation of a very handsome baker, who looked as if he had been powdered all over. The girl certainly was pretty, but she was pale, very pale, and her black hair and dark deep eyes looked all the darker because of her pallid cheeks. Her clothes were neat and well put on, and I should have thought her an English girl, but that, glancing at her shoes, I perceived they were fast approaching to what is termed slip-shod. I hardly ever saw an Irish woman bien chaussée-their shoes are either too big, or crooked, or down behind, or slit before, or something that says as plainly as English shoe can say "I am vilely treated by this Irish foot." There stood Matty-I was sure it was Matty-desirous of escaping with her basket, from which the leaves of carrots peeped forth in company with the end of a roll of butter and a bunch of candles,--evidently desirous of escaping from the baker's arguments. Poor fellow, he had rolled his pass-book into a paper staff, and absolutely suffered the peculation of a little bare-legged boy, who kept picking morsels of bread from the basket that stood by his side, to go unpunished.

I knocked at No. 5, and the instant the knock reverberated through the street, the young woman turned from the baker, who I observed looked after her until she disappeared in the area of the house I was entering as she descended.

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It was pleasant to hear her mistress commend Matty's skill in getting "small things," and praise her industry and good temper; and as she blushed and curtseyed before me, I could hardly fancy that shy creature the same person who wrote and felt the letter I had almost wept over at Bannow. I insisted upon her reading her mother's letter.

"Master Ben. never wrote this," she said, and immediately added, "did you, Ma'am?" It was then she blushed indeed-and such a blush

"Matty," said I, "you must really marry the baker."

Her mistress smiled. "I hope she will; for she has told me about it," she said; "and the young man says that the love will come if she'll only marry! and he's a catholic-and I assure you, Ma'am, she makes excellent bread already."

The worthy woman left the room, and then the Irish maid's feelings burst forth in tears and inquiries.

"I had seen her mother-and Mary, and Kit, and the pigs-and had I seen any one else—had I seen her and his children?”

Poor Matty!-after much conversation, I spoke to her of the handsome baker-she did not blush-she only shook her head, and said—

66 A poor girl like me has nothing to give to an honest boy, but her heart and though, thank God, mine's away from where it onct was, yet somehow it does not feel as if it was come back clean and clever to myself."

"But in time, Matty?"

"May be so," she replied; but the gentle assent had little of hope for the poor baker!

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No, Mary! trust me, when I say,
To me no other seems so fair,
Though joy may dance in younger eyes,
And sunshine gild their burnish'd hair;
For what thou wert when thou wert young
Amidst the beautiful I see,

And what thou art, now thou art old,

The brightest there may pray to be!
Sweet voices do but echo thine,

Bright glances bring me back thy brow

I dream of thee, and not of them,

And feel I love thee better now!

Then, when thy heart was all to win,

And Hope's uncertain transports gave

A wild enchantment to the chain

Which made me thine and Passion's slave.

Now quiet memory gives me back
The story of my vanish'd years,
Success, made brighter by thy smiles,
And woe less bitter by thy tears!
And oh! though those were blessed days,
Far sweeter 'tis to know that thou
Art all even Hope could promise then,
It makes me love thee better now!
Time hath out-tired my eager heart,
And Time hath tamed my spirit high ;

Seems all I gain'd and all I lost

Scarce worth a struggle or a sigh,
All, all but one,-thou, only thou,
The bright ideal of my youth,
Remainest firm, and fond and true,

To prove my dreams of pleasure sooth.
Thou! all the rest my heart hath found
Amid life's hopes-thou, only thou!
All else hath vanish'd from my world
That I might love thee better now!

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