IRELAND-BY AN EYE-WITNESS.

NO. II.

THE curiosity of the Irish peasantry is most amusing. I have had many a laugh to myself, during the few days I have been among them, at the various characters for which I have been taken. The first was, an officer about to join his regiment in the little town of T- ; another, an Inspector of the National Schools; a third, a Surveyor for Railways or general improvements of the country; a fourth, foreman or inspector of works, now progressing on the high-ways; a fifth-that of a Rev. Gentleman. To discover who and what you are, seems to be a common object with all; and the mode of putting the inquiry is sometimes most ludicrous.

"I shouldn't wonder if that isn't the very gentleman the poor men with their feet all wet are waiting for," said one woman to another, as they stood withinside an enbankment, gazing most intently upon the passing stranger; whilst a third, a little in the rear, quickened her pace to join the scrutiny. Are you the gentleman that's come to give the poor men work, Zir?" continued the first speaker, raising her voice, and directly addressing herself to me.

66

"No, indeed, I am not,' was my reply; but I believe he is coming shortly, for I am told there is about to be plenty of work for the poor men.'

"Good luck to yer honour; it's bad enough wanted."

"It is indeed, but you must cheer up; for we shall see better times yet. This failure of the potatoes will bring corn, and that will be far better for you."

"Aye, and yer konour, what's so good for the children as a good dish full of potatoes? there nothing like it."

"Very true, but you must try the corn, and you'll see how good that is. And we will hope that God will send us better times; for He only, can, you know."

Aye, and that's truth, for indeed only God can." "Good luck to yer honour;""Long life to yer Reverence," each added most emphatically, as I now wished them good morning, and passed on.

It

This is merely one out of the many salutations that might be cited.

may serve to show a fact, which can scarcely fail to strike every English observer-the ready access to the heart of the Irish. That knitted brow or mysterious scowl, may threaten a repulse; but give the passing nod, try the "How dy'e do?" or "Good morning," and

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see how quick the modest, unassuming recognition; in a moment is the peasant's countenance lighted up with pleasing interest, and you look in vain for the frown which just now you were disposed to regard with suspicion. In a word, there is a feeling-a sensibility-a kindness about the real Irish character which one cannot but admire.

Take an instance-simple in itself—yet but a fair illustration of that open-heartedness, which is a true characteristic of the Irish people. Having casually heard of a case of extreme distress, I set out to judge of it for myself! It was about a quarter of a mile, and though on a winter's morning, yet to my surprise, the servant of the house-an old Roman Catholic-had reached the spot before me. There she stood without bonnet or cloak; and, when asked how she came, or what she came for, "Oh, I ran, Zir, for I was afraid you would not find it," said she; and hastening into the hovel, "Look up here, Zir," she continued, as she pointed up some broken steps to a loft which I thought must certainly give way under my tread. There, sure enough, was a spectacle which defies language to describe. A hovel into which no reasonable man would turn his horse. A doorway to admit light, but plenty of gaps in the roof to admit wind, and rain, and snow. Wrapped in filthiest rags, and laid in a basket, was a poor sick child, four years old; and crouched over the fire-if a solitary stick may be called a fire-were sundry ragged children; above, in this loft aforementioned, up in one corner, on a little dirty straw-lay a something. I stood and paused, for I thought it could not be a living creature; but presently the equally ragged mother came up, and throwing back an article which might once have been a horse-cloth, there lay a tall and sickly youth, writhing with pain-with hunger, cold, and nakedness; with hunger, I repeat, for certainly that had laid the foundation of the malady. Not a doctor had been nigh, nor had a friend approached that hapless dwelling: all bespoke the most entire neglect.

But I must turn from these scenes, or the reader will sicken at my narrative; yet he must be told of them. How is he, by comparison, to recollect his mercies otherwise? We will, however, on the morrow, seek a change, and if the day be fine, perhaps my reader will bear me company to a little school on yonder mountain heights.

Well, well, this will do, a nice clear sunny morning, though dirty under foot. Come now, let us set out at once, ánd may He who on one occasion so greatly endeared Himself to his disciples whilst journeying to Emmaus, condescend to presence himself with us. It will then be pleasant society, and comfortable walking. I scarcely know of anything more really pleasureable than a retired walk-to leave the busy world, with all its vain delights-and commune with one of kindred spirit, upon the glorious realities of another and a brighter

world. There is that serenity in nature, even though it be upon a wintry morn, that seems to calm the agitated mind-to soothe the troubled spirit; and when the sun, as now, darts forth his cheering rays, does he not promise in most conclusive language, that again at early spring he will arise and shine, to warm-to animate-to draw forth afresh all this that now surrounds us, clad in its wintry garb? The wet or wintry day does but enhance this glorious sunshine; and say, do not the troubled feelings-the gloom, the sorrow, and variety of care which ever and anon, bestrew our course, serve but to tinge with a yet more ready welcome, each new-born ray of light that darts across our pathway? Yes, rude as was the storm, wild as was the tempest, and fearful as were the threatening consequences by which so lately we were filled with terror and dismay, yet how calm-how peaceful now! The storm is gone-the winds are lulled-the clouds are far removed, and behold how additionally beauteous is this vast expanse of bright blue sky! Methinks it such an emblem of the Christian's path! At times, this wilderness seems to undergo a change, and I feel as if I walked within the ranges of my Father's garden; that vast scene, and changeable as is the character of its brightest joys -yet his power is such, and such his great dominion, that, indulged to recognize my high and holy birth-a son, an heir, a joint-heir with Jesus, my beloved Head and Lord. I forget my sorrows, in the thought that I am here in pilgrimage; sent by my Father on an errand; through which he watches over me with parental eye; supplies my every need; and gives the oft renewed assurance, that speedily I shall go on pilgrimage no more: that when my work is done, I shall be taken home, and have possession of that crown which he has in store for me in yonder blissful mountain. While thus assured-when fully convinced beyond a doubt that I am sent upon a Royal mission, I feel so deeply anxious for its full accomplishment, as to forget the difficulties-the inconveniences-that attend my way.

Consider, further, the brevity of life! This fact so presses on me. coupled with that momentous language, "Work whilst it is called today, for the night cometh in which no man can work," that I have an intensity of wish-an ardour of desire to be found at my postin my Master's work-so that when He comes 1 may be ready at a moment's notice, to obey the summons, "Son, come up higher!"

Dear me here we are at this lodge-gate! How conversation beguiles the distance! Now, we will turn in here, for the path is cleaner, and I think a little nearer. This privilege of walking through their parks is again quite another characteristic of the Irish. There, now we have passed the mansion, if you look a little to your left you village; its inhabitants are entirely Roman Catholic; in the centre, where you see that cross, is their chapel-very spacious. This building directly before us is the Police Station, and that to the right, which we shall pass presently, is the National School.

will see a

There! see now what sad plight that school is in. What an appearance of neglect !-totally so! The Bible is virtually abolished, and what Protestant cares to send his children there? The workings of Popery are crafty-destructive to a degree; and, though I would be the last to rule with an iron hand, or copy that self-same persecuting spirit which I condemn in Romanism, yet, as a parent deeply anxious for the welfare of his children, I could not countenance a system where the one essential principle is so compromised. I love to see the Bible honoured; and disappointed as I may be with respect to present fruits, still I would have Scripture the grand foundation on which instruction should be based. On a later day, that which now rests only in the memory, may, by Almighty power, find entrance to the heart; and then be the instance only one-a solitary one-in every thousand, still were the labour not in vain.

Now, ascend this hill, and take just one glance round. Is not that delightful? but you will see it better far as we return. Oblige me now by stepping up upon this bank; there, do you see that little clump of cottages? in one of those we have our Sunday meetings; and surely there the Lord has been manifestatively present. What a mercy He should say, that he is not confined to temples made with hands, but to "that man will I look, and with him will I dwell, who is humble and of a contrite spirit, and who trembleth at my word!" and I find too, that declaration so very encouraging, "Where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them."

We have now nearly arrived at our destination. Just to the end of this lane and then over two or three meadows. Now, leap this ditch, and let me assist you up the bank. There, just take one glance, for this is a fresh view, and must be delightful to an extreme in the summer-season. Look to the left-I imagine that is north-east. This vast plain beneath, then those hills in the distance, then again those mountain-heights rising so majestically in their rear-the one crouching as it were at the others feet-each giving place to a loftier! Is it not grand? I cannot imagine how it is that people are not more in love with Ireland. They cannot have seen it—surely that must be the

reason.

Well, now we will go down to the School. Look to the outer ridge of this meadow; you see a cottage and a sort of barn. In that barn we hold our school. Ah, I see by the watch we have been an hour and twenty-five minutes, and that with smart walking. I am sure it must be five miles-for these Irish miles are very long.

THE SCHOOL.

"Well, children, how d'ye do? Got your lessons perfectly, I hope." "How many of you are there? Little boy, you next but one to the

"Sixteen."
"Eight."

"Quite right." "How many on

window, count them for me, will you?" "How many on this side, little girl?" that side,―next girl?" "Eight." "Quite right." "Little boy, put the two eights together, and how many shall we have then?" "Sixteen." "Very good." "How many had we last week?" "Twelve." "How many more have we to-day?" "Four." 66 Suppose there had been four less instead of four more, how many would there have been then?" 66 Eight." "Very good."

[Thus taking them unawares, you set them thinking-just the reverse of that old parrot-style of repeating lessons, without ever having understood a word of their real signification; and bringing your questions to bear upon objects then and there present, you beget a livelier interest thereby.]

"Well, have you learnt your verses?" "Yes." "Where were they?" "First three verses of the 1st chapter of John." "Repeat them. Next,-next,-next. Very good."

[Here so few answers were elicited, beyond the mere correct recital or the passages, that one was again forcibly reminded of the old parrotsystem that bane to society-that system of genteel plunder for which thousands are now ready to reproach their parents for not having had penetration to detect, and for passive acquiescence with. The children under such a system, are not to be condemned, but the man calling himself a teacher. "Not quantity, but quality," should be the instructor's motto.]

"Where did we read last week?" "First chapter of John." "How far down?" "Twenty-eighth verse." "Go on." "And now you little ones; what bring the book and say your letters."

have you got to say? Come, "Very good."

[Teachers, divide your attention. Don't lavish it all upon one child, or upon one class; but if you are single-handed, arrest the attentionsecure the heart-the eye-of each child, by an individual appeal. Keep an observant eye upon all that you may suddenly put a question to any one-especially the most inattentive. This will gradually excite a more fixed and general attention to your instructions.]

"Well, now then, I wish you could sing. You let me sing all by myself last week. Surely when you are out in the fields and among the hedges, you make some noise. Come, now, we will try that 25th Hymn,

'Salvation, oh the joyful sound,'

and you follow me. Very fair. Now, boys, come you try this next verse. That's better. Now for the last. Better still. I am sure