Ireland's Welcome to the Stranger: or, an excursion through Ireland, in 1844 & 1845, for the purpose of personally investigating the condition of the poor

Chapter I

Departure from New York—The Author’s Parentage—Fellow Passengers—Death on Board—A good Captain—Death of a Drunkard—Arrival at Liverpool—Voyage to Dublin and Arrival at Kingstown—A Chapter of Accidents—Difficulty of obtaining Lodgings—A Morning Walk—Visit to a Roman Catholic Clergyman—The Linen Hall—The North Union Poor House—Letters of Introduction—A Strange Reception—Asylum for Unmarried Ladies

It was in the spring of 1844, May 16th, that I stood upon the deck of the ship Brooklyn, and saw the last spire of New York recede in the distance. It was the home of my childhood—the land where hopes and disappointments had ebbed and flowed; where I had looked out through smiles and tears, till the last earthly tie was severed; and where the last tear was dried on the graves of those most loved. I had no more to shed. It was with a stoical indifference I heard the last farewell, and took the last grasp of the hand of him who asked, When shall we look for you home? and then I shut myself into the narrow cabin, which was to be my parlor and bed-room during the voyage, heeding neither wind, nor wave, nor monster of the deep. It was not the rich, the honored, or the happy I was hoping to meet; it was not their salutations or presents I was going to seek for. It was the poor and the outcast. I was about to visit those who in dens and caves of the earth, were forgotten by their neighbors, and who heard no kinder voices than the whistling of the winds, or the screeching of some desolate owl among the mountains and crags where they had made their habitations.

I was alone. Not a soul in the ship but the captain knew my name, or understood my object, and leaving the command of the vessel to him, and the working of the ropes to the sailors, I betook myself to the opening of my parcels, to ascertain what necessary supplies they contained for mind and body in a voyage like this.

"My boast is not that I deduce my birth,

From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth;

But higher far my proud pretensions rise,

The child of parents passed into the skies."

My home education was of the most uncompromising kind. My parents were descended from the puritanical stock; they taught me that goodness alone was greatness; that, in order rightly to estimate the worth of a man, his gold watch and equipage, his title and station, must be deducted; that a conformity to the customs of the world, when they clashed with the sound principles of the gospel, or the strictest rules of morality, was not only a sin, but meanness of spirit. My father had read little and thought much; and though somewhat orthodox, yet he cared not whether his neighbor prayed kneeling or standing, if he prayed in the true spirit, or whether the psalm were in a minor or a major key, or performed in common or triple time, if sung, making melody in the heart to God. He hung no quakers, nor put any men in a corner of the church because they had a colored skin. He rebuked sin in high places with fearlessness, and forgave all personal injuries before forgiveness was asked.

My mother remembered the poor, and entertained strangers; hated oppression, scorned a mean act, and dealt justly by all. She taught me that in order to be healthy, I must rise early, and if I desired to take an honest breakfast with a proper relish, I must earn before eating it; that to find friends, I must show myself friendly; that to live peaceably, I must allow my neighbors to go out and in, eat, drink, and dress when and how they liked; always avoiding putting my head into a hornets’ nest, if I would not be stung. And when you are sent from home, she emphatically said, conduct yourself well, and your good name will take care of itself; always remembering that a character which requires lawyers and doctors, ministers and elders, to look after it is not worth a groat. With these principles in my head, if not in my heart, I was sent into the world, to make my way, through good and through evil report, as best I could. I looked out upon the seas; the vessel was well under weigh, and the dizzy passengers had already begun to exclaim, O dear! I am dreadfully sick.

My chum now entered; we were shut in—and, like or dislike, there was no alternative; snugly packed as we were, there was no escape, and we immediately set ourselves about, as Eve’s daughters are wont to do, ascertaining each other’s pedigree, object, and destination.

I found her to be an Irish lady, born and bred in the city of Dublin, but she had passed five years in the city of New York, to which she had become greatly attached. She had left her husband and three children to go on business to Ireland, and though she cast many a longing, lingering look back to them, yet she never forgot that she must do good unto all when opportunity presented, and she never neglected the performance of that duty, when necessity required it. Her tall and noble figure, her high open forehead, united with an unpretending though dignified manner, and the benevolence of her heart, which beamed in her placid eye, made her to me an object not only of interest, but of warm attachment. Often when she returned to the berth from some errand of kindness among the sick and distressed have I said in my heart, Who would not love such an angel of mercy? Thus was the beginning of my journey prosperous, and all anxiety for the morrow was banished by the blessings of to-day.

Our cabin companions consisted of the widow of a clergyman, with her son and daughter, who were returning from New York to England, their native country; an Irishman, who had spent the last twenty-five years in America, a naval officer, an editor from the United States (a genuine American), and the young Irish wife of the mate, on a visit to her people. These, with one exception, gave more cause of praise than blame, and made me quite willing to balance accounts with them all when we parted.

All was quiet after the first wrenchings were past. On the third morning after our departure, the captain came up from the steerage, saying, We have had a death on board. The wife of a Scotchman occupied the same berth with her son, a boy of thirteen. She went to bed the preceding evening in as good health as when she came on board, and she slept the sleep of death in the night. Her husband and another son of twenty were in a berth above them, and knew nothing of the circumstance till the young boy awoke, and found his mother cold and stiff by his side.

On descending the steerage stairs, I saw the accompaniments of death as they never had been presented to my view before. The rough hands of the sailors were wrapping the slender body in hempen cloth, and fitting iron weights to the feet, to cause it to sink. The father and the eldest son looked silently, if not coldly on; whilst the younger boy, in a flood of grief, was interrupted occasionally by the stern command of his father, to hold his tongue.

The body was placed on deck, and at twelve the captain assembled the crew, read some passages of Scripture, appropriate for the burial of the dead, prayed (for he was a man of prayer), and four sailors raised the board containing the body upon the railing of the deck, turning away their faces; one dismal plunge was heard; the parted wave closed again, and all was hushed, save the suppressed sobs of the young son. The captain whispered, the husband was not kind, and each turned to his monotony again.

The voyage went quietly on. The captain assembled the crew as often as possible, for prayer and praise, and gave good proof that a ship may be a temple of worship, and that sailors may be treated as men, and be men still. There was no scolding, no flogging, and but little swearing, to make us feel as if we were on board a slave-ship or a man-of-war.

We had proceeded some eight days, when the widow’s son, who had been in the navy, and had lost his health by his excesses, gave sad proof that

"A soldier’s arms,

Through the vanity and brainless rage

Of those that bear them, in whatever cause,

Seem most at variance with all moral good."

He was, at all hours of the night, either at the door of his mother and sister, demanding gin, or roving about the cabin with reddened eyes, declaring that his frenzied brain would make him mad. Sometimes he appeared suddenly in our midst, almost in a state of nudity, on deck, or at table; till, like a maniac as he was, nothing but coercion could restrain him, and he died on a bright Sabbath morning while we were at breakfast; and before the sun had gone down upon the ship, the unfortunate young man was plunged beneath the waves. The mother and sister sat at a distance, while the prayer and burial went on, tearlessly viewing the last office for the dead, when, turning away, a low murmur from the mother was heard, Ah! I could not save him.

Twenty-one days took us into the Channel, and seven more of calm set our feet upon the dock at Liverpool, at a late hour of the night. The next took us to the custom-house, and there, to my happy disappointment, was demanded no duty, the officer kindly telling me that, as my books were for gratuitous distribution in Ireland, he regretted I had not a thousand more, and that he should make no charges. A tea-cup full of oatmeal stirabout[1e] and milk, a night’s lodging in a dwelling contiguous to the hotel (for the talkative landlady had her house full) made a charge of six English shillings, besides a sixpence each to two servants, neither of whom had I seen till I stood at the door to depart.

At two o’clock I took the packet for Ireland; and when I stood upon the plank which was to conduct me on deck, and looked upon the loved face of her who had been my never-tiring companion on the voyage, I longed that I might meet in a land of strangers a heart like hers. She returned to go to Cork, and we have never met since.

We shall remember this voyage, was the last sentence from her lips that fell on my ear.

You have parted with a friend, said a solitary woman, and are you a stranger?

This was a welcome sound, and a few moments’ conversation told me that the law of kindness had not died on the lips of her who had just left me.

A tempestuous night made the sea-sick inmates of the crowded cabin wish for the day, for there was not a comfort or convenience to be had; and when the bright morning dawned, it brought the unpleasant intelligence that we should not see Dublin till the tide should come in, which would be five in the evening. But we had neared the bay, and were in sight of the enchanting harbor, granite buildings, and green sloping hills of Kingstown.[2e]

I have travelled much, said an intelligent gentleman, but have never found anything surpassing the beauty of the bay of Dublin and the Cove of Cork. This bay was in my eye; and I was in it. Yes! the sea was behind me, and the fair Emerald Isle, with the motley assemblage of beautiful and painful objects, was before me. I gave myself to rummaging the scanty knowledge I had of Ireland, to ascertain whether I knew anything tolerable of its true condition and character,—and what did I know?

I knew that between the parallels of 51 and 55 of north latitude there was a little green spot in the ocean, defended from its surging waves by bold defying rocks; that over this spot are sprinkled mountains, where sparkles the diamond and where sleeps the precious stone; glens, where the rich foliage and the pleasant flower, and where the morning song of the bird is blending with the playful rill; that through its valleys and hill sides were imbedded the gladdening fuel and the rich mine; that over its lawns and wooded parks were skipping the light-footed fawn and bounding deer; that in its fat pastures were grazing the proud steed and the noble ox; that on its heathy mountain slopes the nimble goat and the more timid sheep find their food. I knew that proud castles and monasteries, palaces and towers, tell to the passer-by that here kings and chieftains struggled for dominion, and priests and prelates contended for religion; and that the towering steeple and the more lowly cross still say that the instinct of worship yet lives—that here the incense of prayer and the song of praise continue to go up. I knew that no venomous serpent was lying in the path of the weary traveller, and that the purest breezes of heaven were wafted from mountain-top to lowly valley, giving health and vigor to the life-blood, and causing the inhabitants of the rock to sing.

And I had been told, that over this fair landscape hangs a dark curtain of desolation and death; that the harp of Erin lies untouched, save by the finger of sorrow, to tell what music was once in her strings; that the pipe and the dance are only aroused like the last brightening of the flickering lamp, as it ceases for ever; that the tear is on her cheek—she sits desolate, and no good Samaritan passes that way, to pour in the oil and wine of consolation. Lover and friend are put far from her, and she is a hissing and bye-word to those who should lift her up; and she has long reaped down the fields of the rich, while she has tasted none of their pleasant bread. Small as this little fund of knowledge might be, I almost regretted that I had heard the tale of her woes, lest a morbid sympathy should dim the true light, and lead me to stumble, if not wholly to wander from the right path.

A lady from Liverpool, whose sable weeds and careworn cheeks told that she was a child of sorrow, proposed that, as we were alone, and must pass the day together, we might go on shore, and visit the monument erected to King George. We had read the names of the lords and earls who erected it, examined the prints of the shoes cut in marble at the foot, where his kingship stood when he visited it, and had seated ourselves upon a block of marble, and there concluded to go into the railroad office, purchase tickets for Dublin, and leave our luggage to follow us in the packet. Putting my hand into my pocket to get a shilling for my ticket, I missed my pocket-book; this pocket-book contained all valuables of purse and scrip,[3e] and not a farthing had I out of it. My character, as far as letters of introduction might go, had gone to the winds; but as I expected to pay no lodging or travelling fees by it, the money was the great concern. This was a sad landing indeed on a foreign shore, where I had already seen so many asking alms, that I could not hope much for my share. A horror of darkness came over me, and while I stood petrified, the good woman set off at full speed towards the block of granite where we had been sitting. I moped at a distance, muttering, It will do no good, while all the sage counsels given me in New York, of being among strangers, unprotected, alone, unknown, and uncared for, like spectres stood in array. My kind helper reached the fatal block, but no pocket-book was there. There I told you so. What will you do? Then for a few moments we mingled our sorrows; she had tasted deeply of worldly afflictions, and could only say, If you have no money, you have no friends. At that moment an aged pilgrim, in ragged garb, called from a distance, Have you lost anything? Yes, a pocket-book. What color? Dark red. I have found one, but have not opened it.

Did not I love the old man? and when I gladly put a bit into his hand, was I not thrice thankful that I had lost it, because it put a piece of bread into the mouth of an honest child of want, and thankful that I had found it for my own benefit; and then the finding it had given so early a proof of Irish honesty; for one of the dreadful predictions of my fate was, that if I was not murdered outright, I should certainly be robbed.

We heard the car, and no time must be lost. On examination, I found that in pursuit of my pocket-book, I had lost my ticket; ran into the office, paid for another, and lost my keys. After considerable bustle I found them, and then commenced regulating government affairs a little, because the railway clerk required a second shilling for a second ticket. I am obliged to do so, madam—another person might find it, and get the ride; you have found your pocket-book, and should be contented. I saw my mistake, and determined to learn better manners in future.

Dublin was the next encounter, and a lodging-place the first concern. A gentleman in Liverpool had given me the name of a respectable lady, but her rooms were occupied. But learning that I was an American stranger, and recommended by a friend, she managed so as to deposit me comfortably till I could do better. For a moment all was as I wished; the modest unpretending looks of the lady, and the unostentatious appearance of comfort, promised a pleasant resting-place from the storms I had just left.

Not so. It is the little foxes that spoil the vines. Trifles are the busy ants that are constantly building our molehills of evil and good, showing what and how we are in the true light. They are the polar-star that guides us, and the thermometer by which the daily temperature may be well ascertained.

The brother, who was master of the house, came in to his dinner, and set all adrift. She must go to a hotel; if she has come to visit Ireland, she will want such attendance as we cannot give. In vain the kind sister expostulated, begging him to read my good letters of introduction. She must go to a hotel, was the alpha and omega; and when the good woman with a sorrowful face brought the message, my disappointment placed the whole account to the uncompromising disposition of unfeeling old bachelors.

The attendance I should want was afterwards ludicrously illustrated, oftentimes, in Connaught and the wild mountains of the coast; when I found myself sitting in company with a ragged family, around a basket of potatoes, taking the lumper from my hand.

What will you do? will you step across the way, where lodgers are accommodated, and take my name? I do so, and here found single blessedness exemplified in two maiden ladies; and when the stern unyielding negative was given, Surely, thought I, Dublin must be the deposit where all haters of matrimony resort, to vent their spleen against ‘upstart married ladies,’ and ‘saucy dirty urchins.’

Night was approaching, my luggage a mile and a half from me, and it was Saturday; the kind stranger, who sympathized so deeply at the misfortune of the pocket-book, had called to accompany me to the packet, with a car to procure our luggage, but I had no home but the street, and where could I take it?

A servant that moment entered and said, A house not far distant can give you a room. I went, and was received; the happy kind woman was thus opportunely relieved from the dread of offending God, by displeasing her brother.

The kind lady procured a car, and accompanied me to the packet, much fearing that I should doubt Irish hospitality, though she had fed me when I first entered the house. She then returned to the door of my new lodgings, to see that all was safe, and bade me a kind good night.

My room was a back parlor on the first floor, rather gloomy; all the arrangements were different from my own home, and it was the first night in Ireland. My head was pillowed, but my brain took liberties which it never has ventured upon since; for when it had thrown off the scum occasioned by the first day’s fermentation, the pool became quiescent.

Monday.—The lady who first entertained me went out to show me a little of the city, and Cole River View, where my letter of introduction was to be delivered. This letter of introduction, by the way, was no small item in the account, for I was assured by the Irish gentlewoman in New York who presented it, that it would introduce me to all the Protestants in Dublin of the better class; but as the poor and the peasantry were the objects of my visit to the country, I commenced my acquaintance that morning by saluting as many of these as I could on the way.

The rich scenery, heightened by a pleasant sun, threw around a lustre upon all about me, which kept my imagination awake, diffusing a cheerfulness to the poor laborer, which made his burden more light; for in Ireland it may emphatically be said, a merry heart doeth good like a medicine—the merry burst of wit following the hasty brush of the tear from the eye, is always a happy transition, not only to him who sheds that tear, but to the sympathizing looker-on. God, who knew what Ireland would suffer, made it so, and God does all things well.

We reached the tasty cottage to which my letter was directed, but the person who should break the seal was absent, and we were invited to call again.

The cabins were my centre of attraction, as I had never before seen a thatched roof, an earthen floor, or the manner of cabin house-keeping. I saw new things, and if I found nothing to imitate, I always found something to admire. The first we entered was cleanly; the dishes tastefully arranged upon a white cupboard, and a family of young girls in cleanly garb. And had I visited no other, I might have written a romantic tale on the bright pots and buckets of the Irish peasantry. They were employed in a sail-cloth factory. The next we saw was a pitiful reverse. A slender, discouraged-looking man was sitting on a stool in one corner; a sickly-looking mother, with four ragged children, in another; all waiting the boiling of a pot of potatoes, which certainly fell short of the three pounds and a half allowed to each man in the poor-house.

Do your children go to school, sir?

No, ma’am; we could not get them clothes to be dacent on the street. I work at blaichin,’ ma’am: I have eight shillings a week, and pay five pounds for the cabin, without a fut of land.

I deducted the five pounds from the twenty pounds sixteen shillings, leaving him fifteen pounds sixteen shillings to feed, clothe, and warm six beings; and in fact I could not find many sovereigns left for their education. This being my first arithmetical calculation on Irish labor and economy, I was at a loss to understand how the thing could be possible; but having since seen many things stranger than these, I am prepared to believe in what once would have appeared a little short of miraculous.

Wednesday.—I was requested to call on Dr. M. Our interview ended in a favorable manner, for though he gave me but two fingers, and a long formal bow, instead of the hearty Irish grasp of the hand, yet he became talkative when I told him my object, and said I had chosen the only way to come at the truth; for Ireland had been wholly misrepresented by writers who had only looked at the surface of things. He took out his map, showed me the best route through the country, gave me some valuable information respecting the condition of the peasantry, and requested me to keep in view the condition of servants, as far as I could do so without prying interference. He recommended me to notice their sleeping apartments, and to see how many I should find wholesome and comfortable for human beings to lodge in through the night.

To my sorrow, in going through the south of Ireland, I found his words verified not only in the case of servants’ lodging, but their food; eating their potatoes morning and night, when the master and mistress were abundantly blessed with the good things of this life.

Thursday.—I called on Mr. Fleming, a temperance man, who asked me, Have you really come to see the poor of Ireland, and do you expect or want any great dinners got up for you? Assuring him that I neither wanted great dinners, nor great people to flatter me, he answered, Be assured if you have come to see the poor, the rich will have nothing to say to you; and don’t be disappointed if they not only treat you with neglect, but say many wrong things about you.

Friday.—Visited the annual exhibition of the arts; and saw some specimens of taste beyond what I had anticipated. The bog oak of Ireland (which is found buried in the earth) when polished, and made into many articles of taste, is a beautiful specimen not only of the skill of the mechanic, but of the richness of this neglected island in its bowels as well as upon its surface. Here were chairs, tables, and small fancy articles of the most exquisite beauty, which were made from this wood. Among its highest ornaments was a standing Father Mathew administering the pledge to a peasant, both as large as life; the peasant kneeling. The complacent look of the kind apostle of temperance is a happy illustration of the peace and good will to men, which mark the footsteps of this unassuming man, wherever they can be traced.

Saturday.—Was introduced into the Linen Hall; here is a sad memento of Ireland’s blighted prospects of her once proud manufacture of this useful article. The desolated Hall, with its appendages, which once included two acres of ground, now and then in some dusty room shows a sack or two of linen, and in some dark hall a few piles of linsey-woolsey. Here was the son of an old inheritor of some of these rooms, when, in its glory, its coffee room was thronged with men of business, now standing almost alone in its midst, selling linen, to tell the inquirer what it once was.

My next visit was to the Poor House, for I had heard much of their well-managed laws from all but beggars, who gave them no share in their affections. The house contained one thousand seven hundred persons of all ages, and all who were able were at work or in school. The rooms were well ventilated, and the floors daily washed. The aged appeared as comfortable as care and attention could make them. One old lady was pointed to us who was a hundred and six years old; she could read without glasses, and had the use of all her faculties. The dinner-hour was near; three pounds and a half of potatoes were poured from a net upon the table for each individual; fingers supplied the place of knives and forks, and the dexterity of a company of urchins, in divesting the potatoe of its coat, and dabbing it into the salt upon the table, caused me imprudently to say, I am happy, my lads, to see you so pleasantly employed. Silence was written upon the walls, but this unlucky remark of mine changed the suppressed titter into a laugh, and the unfortunate wights were turned into the yard, in spite of all mediation on my part, as being the aggressor. But the loud laugh and buoyant leap of these boys testified that the loss of a dinner could not bring sadness into the hearts of these merry Irish lads.

The most admirable arrangement was shown in the beds, which were made of straw, and emptied every month, and clean straw substituted. The straw taken out is cut up, and flung into a large pit; the suds from the laundry are then conveyed to it by a channel, and it is thus converted into a rich manure. The yearly profit from this plan is from £130 to £140; this is a great economy, besides the advantage of cleanliness to the inmates. This manure is sold for the benefit of the institution, and a multitude of swine are fattened on the offals of the food, and are sold for the same purpose. Twice a week soup is given, and stirabout and buttermilk in the morning; the aged and invalids have bread and tea when required.

Letters of introduction I greatly dislike, for two reasons. They place two parties in a constrained position; the individual who presents the letter feels a kind of dread lest he may be thought a burdensome extra appendage, which, if received, will only be out of complaisance to the friend who sent the letter. The person who receives it may feel that, though he respects the friend that sent it, yet it comes in the very time when it should not, when all was hurry of business; and how can time be lost in showing picture galleries, and making pic-nics? Besides, the mistress may have a bad servant, the house may be in disorder, and one night’s lodging would turn a room or two topsy-turvy, and often the visitor is politely handed over to some neighbor as a compliment, for a fresh introduction. I have so often been peddled about as a second-hand article in this way that I have now letters of introduction of years old, which I never have presented, and never shall.

Believing that the actors alone in the following tragedy will be the only persons who will understand who I mean, I shall not spare to tell the whole truth. I had promised to accompany the young ladies home from church, and dine with them, when the letter of introduction was left; I did so, and was introduced to a spot where the style of house and lands showed them to be a vestige of an aristocratic race. The parent had gone down to the dust, leaving a son and three daughters on the paternal estate, with all the insignia of comfort around them. They were of the Established Church, lofty in their views, great haters of the low Irish, and quite careful that the Apostle’s injunctions should be religiously observed, where servants are required to be obedient to their masters.

I receive you, said the sister to whom the letter was directed, on the strength of the note you brought; but I must be candid in saying, I am not partial to the Americans, because they keep up no distinction of rank, and eat with their servants.

Dinner was soon brought, when a maiden lady, whose age had been stationary probably for the last twenty years, was introduced. This lady had seen enough of the world to make her vain, possessed enough of its wealth to make her proud, and had religion enough to make her a boasting pharisee. I soon knew I had much to fear and little to gain, for she called for a new bottle of wine to be opened, as the doctor told her she must always use a little at her dinner, or brandy, if she preferred it; for she was bilious. See, madam, said she to me, our Saviour made wine, as the marriage could not be celebrated without it; and Paul said to Timothy, ‘Use a little wine for your often infirmities.’ Do you see, madam, God has made all these things for our comfort—taking a glass with much relish at the same time. Seeing me decline a plate of flesh,What! don’t you take meat? Have the doctors told you it’s bad for you? Why, do you know that meat was given on purpose for the benefit of man? Here followed an unbroken lecture on the creation, the command given to Adam to control the beasts of the field, the fowls of the air, and the fish of the sea, and make them his food. Then the practice of our Saviour. So you see, madam, I have the Bible at my tongue’s end; and here’s Miss W—, a good Christian, a church-going woman. Come now, don’t go to church to-night. You came from America, and can tell us much about it. This would do us more good than a sermon. Come, come, what do you say to all this?

Not a word had been uttered to interrupt this pell-mell volubility, when the presiding sister said, Mrs. N. is a disciple of Mr. Graham, and perhaps would give us a little lecture on flesh eating? O! cried the antiquated heroine, clapping her hands, that’s it—that’s the thing—that’s the thing! Sipping her wine again, Come, nodding her head, you may make a convert of me; come, I’m ready. Now begin. Hear, hear! The uproar became quite theatrical, for all joined in the chorus of Hear, hear! Begin, begin! To give a little rebuke, but more to make an honorable escape, I asked, How do you spend your Sabbaths? Perhaps something else would be better. All with one voice cried out, Give us a lecture—a Bible lecture on flesh eating—now! now! and we will be all attention. The lecture commenced, when soon the whole four pounced upon me, and with one vociferous tumult, crying and clapping their hands, and the chief speaker exclaiming, Now! now! we have got it—Hear! hear! Why now, you must be a fool, or out of your mind. I thought you were in a decline, you looked so emaciated and so woe-begone.

In self-defence I was obliged to say, You will excuse me from making any attempts to proceed. I sincerely think the lady who has been speaking must be insane, or half intoxicated. This finished the battle; the ridicule was turned into rage; I left the table, followed by the youngest sister, and we both went into the garden. Apologising for the warmth of the lady, she said, you must know that she is highly respectable. But lacks good breeding, I continued. No indeed, rejoined the miss.

The eldest sister made the same apologies in essence, and I remarked, that the conduct I had seen to-day in this house would have disgraced the lowest American table, even where servants might be permitted to take a seat! I then took my bonnet and shawl, made my salaam, and departed.

This, reader, was my first letter of introduction, and it was a letter which, when given me in New York, I was assured was the very one that would introduce me into the first Protestant society in Dublin.

Truly, I never had spent the hours of a Sabbath so profanely in my life. I was vexed at myself, and disgusted with the spider-web education of females in the higher walks of life; but I was not discouraged; neither did I rail at all Ireland, or tax her fair daughters with being the most affected, the most impudent, and the most ignorant of all others. I have not found it so, though this specimen in a family of high pretensions was then and still is a problem quite difficult to solve.

On Wednesday morning I walked with a young lady to the Phoenix Park. On our way we met many interesting things, which made me inquire, who shall heal the wounds of bleeding, dying Ireland? So far as taste of man and nature’s best skill could make it, every spot is full of interest, but every pleasant object in Ireland is dashed with some dark shade, which defaces, if it does not entirely put out, the beauties of the picture. In my pleasant morning walks in the land of my fathers, I had never been accustomed to meet the pale-faced dejected mother, and the ragged child, begging a halfpenny for a bit of bread. This morning a modest-looking woman approached with a basket of oranges, and without giving her the pain of a refusal, I said, I am sorry, ma’am, I have not a penny to buy an orange. I then asked,

Have you a family?

Yes, ma’am; and their father’s been dead this eight months, and they are all helpless around my feet.

Have you been to breakfast?

No, ma’am, I come out to get a bit, if I could sell a little of these. A morsel will not cross the lips of one of us till it is bought by these.

How much do you make a day?

Sometimes sixpence, but moretimes not so much.

As I passed on, sometimes sixpence, but moretimes not so much, sounded in my ears; and yet this to Dublin ears would scarcely be called a cry of distress, or the speaker an object of compassion. And often have I been answered, when pleading for the poor, What’s that? They are used to it. Used to it! The longer the poor have suffered, and the lower they have fallen, the more haste should be made to rescue them.

As I returned, the novel inscription of a Asylum for Unmarried Ladies, on the plate of a door, attracted my attention; and I begged the privilege of visiting it. I found this was an institution for single females of respectable character, who were advanced in life, whose means were limited. Here they are provided with shelter, fuel, lights, and furniture; twenty-one females, with every comfort that order and cleanliness could bestow, were here. Each manages her own affairs, such as cooking and taking care of her clothes, as she chooses,—as much so as if in her own house; and such as are able are expected to pay 2s. 6d. per week. This makes them feel an independence which persons in all grades are fond of claiming. Pity, great pity, that bachelors are not taxed with all these expenses, for they above all other men demand the most attention from females when age advances. This institution was formed by two or three young females, and much credit do they deserve for their laudable undertaking. May they find as good a shelter if they shall ever need one!

Chapter II

Dialogues with the Poor—An English Prophecy—Clontarf Castle—Plan for the Relief of the Destitute—A Dying Saint—Journey to Tullamore—Family Affliction—Visits to the Poor—The Jail—The Poorhouse—Irish Beggars—A Scene on leaving Tullamore—Return to Dublin—Extraordinary Spectacle on the Road—Connaught Laborers—The Two Convicts—A Man’s Merit cannot be judged by his Coat—Another Visit to the Dying—A Military Congregation

Come, ladies, the morning is sunny. You have taken your tea, and a little excursion into the outskirts, where the air is free and balmy, will do you good. A kind look and word to the poor of this world would cost but little, and it might resuscitate some dying hope, and wipe some falling tear from the widow’s or orphan’s eye. I must go alone, and my first letter of introduction meeting such a sad repulse, I fortunately substituted American stranger. It was a day of interest, not because I was in a great city, not because I saw squalid poverty in every street, but because I saw this poverty standing out in a kind of self-possessed freedom, which seemed to say, Though I am divested of my beauty, though I am shorn of my strength, there is in me a germ of life that shall one day come forth. Its very antiquity commanded respect. Do you think, said a grey-haired old man, that Ireland will ever see a good day? Though my ould eyes will never see it, my children’s may; for God is good.

He was leaning upon a wall, covered with rags of various colors, yet cheerful and uncomplaining.

And what, sure, sent you here? cried a wretched looking woman, bearing a little mug of beer. You must be going astray in yer mind to leave so fine a country. The Irish are all kilt, ma’am. They can get no work and no bread.

But why do you buy this beer if you have no bread?

Ah! I’ve a pain in the liver, and it’s for my strength I take it.

Where do you live?

I don’t live nowhere; I’m only strugglin’ to get my bit; at the same time sitting upon the ground, and saying to herself, God save her, the cratur, she’s goin’ astray in her mind.

I went into cabins of filth, and I went into cabins of the greatest cleanliness, whose white-washed walls and nicely scoured stools said that she that looketh well to the ways of her household lives here. All ages saluted me as the American stranger, and said one, Ye’r a wonderful body; and did you come alone? Oh! America is a beautiful country, and if I was there I would get the mate. Seeing a repeal button in the coat of a man standing by his car, I inquired, Do you find employment, sir?

"But little, ma’am; I suffer much, and get little. O’Connell[8e] has worked hard for us, and is now in jail. I’m waitin’ here for a job, and the thief of a fellow won’t get on to my car with my repeal button in sight. But I will wear it. Oh! the country’s dyin’; it’s starvin’; it’s kilt. And O’Connell won’t let us fight, and I ’spose that’s the best way."

A cleanly woman, knitting upon a wall, told me she was English; had been in Dublin a year; her health was poor, and she had come out for an airing. But oh! these miserable beggars. They think they shall get free; but England is so grabbing they never will; and besides there is an ancient prophecy that England is to fight and conquer the whole world, and give them all the gospel.

Where did you find this prophecy?

They say it’s in the Bible.

To what church do you belong?

To the Protestant.

You should read the Bible for yourself, and see if you can find such a prophecy.

I’ve a prayer-book—

Leaving this learned theologian, I found a woman sitting upon a stone, with a basket of gooseberries by her side, from which she had sold but three halfpence farthing’s worth since the preceding morning.

I have three children to feed, said she, and God knows how I can do it; when they were babies around my feet, I could feed ’em, and put decent clothes on their bodies; but now I can get no work.

For a halfpenny she poured twice the value into my bag, which I refused; when, with the tear in her eye, she said, You would give more if you had it, and you speak a kind word to the poor; and what’s a handful of gooseberries? Turning to the old men who were breaking stones, I said to them, You are aged, and how much do you have for this labor?

Sixpence ha’penny a day, ma’am.

Is that all?

Ah! that is better than idleness, said the younger, and my wife gets a job now and then which helps us a little.

Clontarf Castle was now in sight; at its gate was a surly porter rudely abusing a poor woman for entering its enclosure. The reader may be reminded that a faded dress, tattered shoes, and weather-beaten bonnet, have no right through the gate of any gentleman’s estate; and looking about upon my own, at the same time using my pass-word, I hoped a more ready entrance would be granted.

I am sorry, ma’am, I cannot let you in, as you are an American; but none can enter without a pass.

Your master, sir, has a splendid estate, but I should prefer being a little poorer than the steward of all this.

Not I: if the rich can’t be happy, I don’t know who can. Why, this man has his coach-and-four, his horses for hunting, his good dinners and wine, and what has he but comfort?

But, sir, a good conscience is better than all this.

What have we to do with that? We’re all born, but we ain’t all buried; and what’s behind there is nothing to us.

The associations about the castle were such, that my disappointment was considerable, that I would not be admitted. Colman’s graphic description of a battle fought there in the year 1014, which was more than awful, had left upon me such an impression, that I wished much to see the spot. A little girl, filthy and ragged, carrying a dirty cloth containing a few raw potatoes, approached with a courtesy, saying, Lady, I am very hungry; I hav’n’t had one mouthful to eat since yesterday morning.

Do you tell me the truth?

I do, lady.

Her voice faltered, and a gush of tears relieved her.

I have no father or mother, and live with a grandmother by the bridge. The good folks, ma’am, have certainly gone out of this world. They hunt me from their doors, and hav’n’t given me one morsel to-day.

And have you had no breakfast to-day?

Not so much as would fill a bird’s eye, lady; I tell ye the truth.

She kept close to me, and continued chattering in the most simple manner, and wondering what ailed the world, and what would become of her, saying, O, I’m so hungry!

In the evening, I sat down to gather up the fragments of the day. I had seen painful things, I had seen pleasant things, and though all were common events, yet out of the varied materials I had put up this little parcel as worthy a second reviewal. What ought to be done can be done. This ignorance, this hunger, this patient double-distilled misery sit with a bad grace on a benevolent Christian city like Dublin. But you answer, It was always so, and always will.

Suppose fifty ladies in this city, who have leisure, should go out at ten in the morning, and mingle promiscuously with the poor upon the street, take their number, ascertain who is worthy, and who is unworthy; who need instruction, and who will receive it; who are idle from necessity, and who from choice; who can do one kind of work, and who another, and who can do nothing at all; who are old, and who are sickly; who can go to a place of worship, and who cannot, &c. By four o’clock in the afternoon each lady could ascertain the true condition of twenty persons at least, making in all a thousand, who might be truly deserving, and who, with a little assistance of work and necessaries, would soon be placed beyond want. But be careful that the payment be a full equivalent. Nothing gives the industrious honest poor man more encouragement than this; it makes him hope; he sees something tangible before him; he sees he may yet have a decent garment and a comfortable meal, independent of his rent; and he feels that he may sleep without the dreadful torment of a debtor’s pillow. Let this going out into the high-ways and hedges be continued, and how many disconsolate hearts could be lifted up; how many tears would be wiped from the cheek of the orphan, and how many blessings from the lips of those who are ready to perish would be poured forth. This has been done, and can be done again. Dublin stands nobly prominent in her charitable institutions; there are none, save the poor sailor, but have a place in her kind provisions for the destitute; still there is much land to be possessed.

Monday, July.—In company with a young lady, visited the cabin of a poor dying saint. She stood on that narrow neck of land between the two worlds, which to the poor sinner is a fearful position, but to her it was like the last step to land from a tempestuous voyage, where she would meet her best kindred. Her earthly friends had forsaken her, because she had left the Romish church, and though griping poverty was pinching her five little ones, and she must leave them to a selfish world, yet she said, I have not one anxious thought about them. Jesus, she emphatically added, does all things well; and last night he gave me such a cluster of light, that the whole room was enlightened by his presence; and soon, yes, soon I shall see him as he is. How has Christ honored poverty, and how he delights to dwell with the poor