people, their slovenly habits, and gross superstition. Nothing, however, can be more erroneous than to infer all these from the appearance of the houses; for, had the cabins been all whitewashed and surrounded with trees-had the dunghills been removed to the rear, and a little attention paid to the lawn-casual visitors would be impressed with very different sentiments; they would draw inferences quite opposite to those which, at present, naturally arise from apparent wretchedness; though it must be evident, to any reflecting man, that the addition of trees and whitewash could neither add to nor diminish the enjoyments of the inmates. We are all the creatures of habit; and the Irish peasant, accustomed to his simple dwelling, feels no inconvenience from its dreary aspect. To him it is a home of comfort; it is associated, in his mind, with tender ties and past recollections; and he finds in its very mud walls and thatched roof-its rude hearth, and earthen floor--mute incentives to love it. Those only who have seen the cottier forced to quit his cabin can know how ardently these poor people feel attached to the place where they have resided for any length of time. The bulk of mankind have scarcely any idea of fine views' and enchanting prospects.' Mountain and valley, hill and plain, are all one to them; and, as ornaments of any kind are merely artificial luxuries, those who have never experienced a desire to possess them can certainly feel no inconvenience from their absence. Recommend an Irish landlord to remove his dunghill, and plant flowers before his door, and he will look on you as one insane; because, in the estimation of his neighbours, a large dunghill, kept square, is the best evidence of his industry, wealth, and management. Such a man will, and perhaps with reason too, rather see the exhalations rise from a heap of manure, than inhale the odour of a moss rose. That which proceeds from either the negligence or habit of some, is the consequence of policy in others. For this reason we find the dwellings of wealthy farmers in Ireland built, of the same materials as the cabins of cottiers, because that class almost invariably affect poverty, when they are comparatively rich. They do this for many reasons; but more particularly to deceive their landlord respecting the produce of their lands, and to avoid the payment of fines on the expiration of their leases. I have known several of them, in various parts of the country, who would not permit their sons and daughters to wear any clothes but those of the coarsest kind, lest their landlord, who lived hard by, should consider a dress of shop cloth an evidence of their farms being let too cheap. I was once at a wedding, where the fortune of the bride was four hundred pounds, yet the bridegroom wore a felt hat, because his landlord was present. Without any motives of this nature, however, the people were, until very lately, all dressed in their own manufactures; and, though this commendable and primeval custom has been, within these few years, departed from by the wealthier farmers, it still prevails among the lower classes, unless the Sunday dress of the females forms an exception. The growing vanity has also imparted a desire for slated houses, among those who can, or think they can, afford to build them; but still the thatched houses prevail; and, if they are unsightly, it must be confessed they are warmer in winter, and colder in summer, than houses covered with either slate or tile; while they are much more easily erected. But, if the habitations of the Irish peasantry are rude and inelegant, so are the dwellings of the same class in other countries. With the exception of certain parts of England and Holland, the cottages of the poor are, throughout the world, what is generally called miserable, America, France, Spain, Scotland, &c. form no exception to this rule; and yet the people of these countries are comparatively happy. It follows, therefore, of course, that, if the Irish peasantry are miserable, the cause is not to be found in their cabins; neither are these cabins the consequence of misery, since they are inhabited by those who could afford to build more splendid dwellings.* Poets tell us that the business of life is love. The greater part of mankind, however, seem to think other wise; for nearly all their time is spent in providing the means of gratifying hunger and thirst. They generally estimate human happiness by the quantity and quality of food which in dividuals consume, and regard the man who has plenty to eat and drink, and little to do, as enjoying the highest state of mundane felicity. Those who call the Irish peasantry half. starved have never been across Saint George's Channel; or, at least, have never had any intercourse with the poorer classes. No people in the world and I say it from extensive observation-consume larger quanti ties of wholesome food. A labourer's family in Munster sit down to a kish of potatoes, which contain nearly as much of that useful esculent as are dressed in a day for all the inhabitants of Bedford Square; and that they are never stinted must be evident from the abundance which they leave for the pig. Neither is it true that the Irish peasantry live exclusively on potatoes. Nothing can be more erroneous than such a supposition. No farmer will attempt to place a dinner of potatoes only before his labourers; and, during spring and harvest, the breakfast invariably consists of bread or sturabout. The latter is the dish in general use for this early meal, in the kitchen of the better sort of farmers, throughout the year. It is to me sur prising that so many travellers should have asserted that the Irish peasantry eat nothing but potatoes, since it was impossible for them to have travelled two miles in any direction without seeing wind and water mills, employed exclusively in the manufacture of barley and oatmeal for home con sumption; for, of these two articles, scarcely any is exported, and wheaten bread only is used in towns. Had they visited the kitchens of the homely farmers, they might have seen evidence of animal food; for I have frequently stood under the chimney of the cultivator of thirty or forty acres of land, while there hung over my head, suspended in the smoke, as much bacon as would stock a London cheesemonger's shop. It may surprise the English reader to hear, although nothing is more true, that in several parts of Ireland it is customary for a farmer to kill an ox at Christmas, for the sole use of his family; and I can tell him that this class of people entertain their friends-and, in their vocabulary, every one who honours them with a visit, is a friend-in a manner, and with an elegance, that must surprise those who are unacquainted with their politeness and resources. All, however, are not thus affluent. The Irish labourer, or, as he is called, the Irish cottier, is a man literally steeped to the lips in grinding poverty: he, indeed, earns his bread by the sweat of his brow, and is the very child of Want. Still, unless where he is peculiarly unfortunate, or where he is not thoughtless and improvident, he is not worse situated than the la bourer in other countries. He is certainly better off than the English labourer; and, contrary to an opinion I once entertained, I am confident he eats and drinks better, works less, and consumes even more animal food, though his family may not; for he generally dines at his master's table. Instances of great distress among this class are undoubtedly frequent. They are so every where; but, in nine cases out of ten in Ireland, the object of relief will be found in the vicinity of towns, and not in the country. It is likewise worthy of remark, * Mr. Walsh, in his History of Dublin,' speaking of the turf-cutter's cabins in the bog of Allen, says, 'The wretched manner in which the lower class of the inhabitants of this country is lodged has been long a subject of reproach to us, as a civilized people; and it must be acknowledged that rack-rents and unfeeling landlords are among the efficient causes of the evil: that it may, however, be sometimes traced to other sources, is evident from a contemplation of the present scene; the proprietors of these hovels earn an easy subsistence; nay, some are comparatively opulent, and one was pointed out to me, by a person of credibility, who had saved above one hundred pounds; and yet his habitation, the only one he possessed, was perfectly similar to that of his neighbours.'-Vol. ii. p. 1230. I don't wish it should be inferred that, because Paddy drinks whiskeyand who could live in Ireland without drinking it?- he is intemperate. On the contrary, few are more abstemious. He will refrain for months from his favourite potation; not because he thinks it prudent to do so, but because opportunity does not serve.At fair, or patron, he never thinks of saying No to the invitation of a friend, and frequently gets intoxicated more from the warmth of his feelings, and goodness of his heart, than from any extraordinary love he bears to the native. At such a moment he is by no means inclined to keep the peace towards all his majesty's subjects; and hence the returns of persons committed and convicted in Ireland, in 1823, present the singular contrast of hundreds being arraigned for riots, assaults, &c. whilst not more than two appear to have been convicted in some counties for larceny ;-a fact which speaks volumes in favour of the untamed spirit of the people, while it demonstrates their superior honesty, and absence of motives to temptation. that distress unlike the same thing in other places-is, of late, ostentatious in Ireland. The prevalence of an opinion respecting the misery of the people has banished the former spirit of independence; and few labouring men now consider themselves disgraced by accepting charity. Distress is, therefore, frequently assumed; and I know, from personal observation, that some years ago, in Dublin, it was usual for room-keepers to conceal their furniture and clothes when some benevolent gentlemen undertook to seek out objects entitled to charity. Of the late distress in the South I know nothing personally; but that something similar to this conduct of the room-keepers took place strikes me as probable, since I find that half the population of a county received charitable relief!a thing unknown there before or since. The effect of permanent poverty, and a want of sufficient food, is a population stinted in their growth, deficient in strength, and dishonest in their habits. Paddy, it will be readily admitted, is neither feeble nor deformed; and the criminal records of his country show that a more honest rural population than that of Ireland does not exist on the face of the earth: unless in troubled times,' it is not usual for the peasantry to place locks on their doors, while no one ever thinks of employing watchmen to guard exposed property. The moral feeling and religious impressions of the people are certainly great preventives of crime; but, even these, powerful as they are, would, I fear, be insufficient, did the whole population labour, as some have stated, under unmitigated distress. Their boisterous mirth, their attachment to rural sports, and their frequent quarrels, are unanswerable proofs of a freedom from tantalizing poverty; for those who have nothing but misery at home will seldom be found partaking of rustic sports abroad. I mention frequent quarrels, because Paddy, much as he loves fighting, is by no means pugnacious, unless when primed, as he says himself, with whiskey; and, plentiful as that article is, it is seldom to be procured without money. Those who attribute all the miseries of Ireland to the want of capital are certainly wrong as far as it respects agriculture. I do not mean to say that the people adopt the best methods of husbandry; but, whatever the defect may be, it proceeds more from an ignorance of a better system than from any want of money. Few, very few, of those farmers who cultivate any quantity of land above twenty acres, are without a cool hundred or two,' deposited in some secret place. It is by no means uncommon for one of these small proprietors to give his daughter a hundred or a hundred and fifty pounds for a portion on her marriage; and those who may doubt the truth of my statement will find, in Mr. Wakefield, abundant proofs of small farmers having guineas buried in the ground. During the late war it appears, from Custom-house returns, that the gold imported into Ireland exceeded the exports more than two-thirds. Such was then the anxiety of the peasantry to possess guineas, that I have known as high as * Clare. thirty-three shillings frequently given for one. Since then the country has not been so prosperous; but, previous to the rise in the price of farm produce, the independence of this class may be inferred from the fact that it was, in several places, quite common to see the corn of two, three, and even of seven years' growth, lying in stacks in the yard. In 1807, I spent nearly the whole year in the county of Wexford, and the greater part of that time in the baronies of Forth and Bargie, where I found this to be almost universally the case. I shall mention an instance. In the parish of Duncormick, in Bargie, I could see, by only turning round, the houses of seventeen farmers;* every one of whom had hundreds of barrels of old corn in their yards, or, as they call them, haggards: none of these occupied more than from thirty to sixty acres of poor ground; for this part of Ireland owes none of its prosperity to the goodness of the soil. There was not a magistrate, and of course not a resident proprietor, within eight or nine miles; yet crime was almost unknown, and of absolute poverty there was scarcely any. Comparative wealth is frequently found in Ireland, in conjunction with apparent poverty. Mr. Wakefield, speaking of a tenant of Admiral Pakenham, says He is an old man; has made a fortune, and can give his daughter two thousand pounds; yet she was feeding the pigs, dressed in a linsey gown, without shoe or stocking. She has been taught to read, write, and cast accounts, at one of the common schools.' I could multiply instances in hundreds to prove that in general the Irish farmers are not deficient in capital: and, though it must be confessed that they are not the best husbandmen, yet they are by no means either so slovenly, or so ignorant of agricultural science, as is generally supposed. It is a fact, however-and the sooner the Irish peasantry are informed of it the better-that it is in their own power to add considerably to their comforts. The cottier who should make his acre of land produce four times the quantity of vegetables which it does at present would be increasing his stock of happiness; and, if by making his pig eat more potatoes, and his family less, he procured meat for his dinner, he would be increasing the sum of human enjoyment. Yet happiness, after all, is so fugacious, that it is not easy to say what policy or what conduct will best secure it. Perhaps that principle, which impels every man to study his own advantage, is sufficient to promote the best interests of society; and that it is better to undermine bad habits by the force of public opinion than by positive laws. It is, however, in the power of the legislature to add considerably to the happiness of the Irish peasantry: but this is a subject on which I have promised not to touch. In the course of next month, however, I shall point out the feeling, the opinions, and the persons, on which wise laws would have a salutary effect. LETTER FROM A LONDON STUDENT.-NO, IV. You wonder, you say, at my si lence; and I wonder no less that you should expect me to write in such hot weather as we have lately suffered under. Why it is almost impossible that any man could undergo the fatigue of holding a pen in such weather-still less that he should be able to use that pen: even a featherweight was insupportable; and, if I had not been so fortunate as to get under a cloud (the first that has been seen for several weeks), I should not have been able now to tell you in what part of the world my destiny has thrown me. You will not be surprised at the date of my letter, because you know that I am easily induced to ramble; and you will imagine that I could not stay in London during the hot weather. I came to These seventeen farmers lived within a circle of two miles. Whoever stands at the cross of Strakaan may see them all; and, if he wishes for further particulars, my friend, the Rev, Mr. John Barry, P.P. of Rathangan, will, I have no doubt, communicate them. London with O'Brady, whom you know, and who is in pursuit of a lady whose estates he has fallen desperately in love with. He offers to lay odds that she is Mrs. O'Brady within six weeks; and if you, or any of your readers, are disposed to accept them, there is no time to be lost, for he has begun the attack with great vigour, and, I think, with a very reasonable prospect of success. I detest this kind (all kinds) of watering-places; and Leamington is not one of the best, even among bad ones. It is but lately that it has come into any kind of repute; and even now its fame is of a so-so cha racter. Some patriotic shoemaker, whose name I forget, but whose memory is held in such veneration by the grateful people here that they think of building altars to him, was the first to bring it into notice. He procured subscriptions from the neighbouring gentry, in order to make the warm springs available for the use of the poor afflicted with chronic diseases, in the cure of which it had been found very successful. After him the great lessee of Drury Lane shed the influence of his dignity and power upon it. Under his auspices reading-rooms and assem bly-rooms, and boarding-houses, sprung up as quickly as changes of scene in one of his own pantomimes. By dint of puffing he raised it into something like fame; and, as the report runs, even made money by his speculations. At all events he made Leamington a great place among very little ones, and even flattered himself that it would divide the favours of the fashionable world with Cheltenham. This, however, has not come to pass; and, between ourselves, I don't think it ever will. The vicinity of Birmingham is against its being generally liked. To the great hardwaremen of that most renowned town it is of course a perfect paradise of delight; but still there is a kind of plated look about it, to my thinking, a sort of counterfeit shining, which is very much against its chance of becoming any better than it is at present. It shall be, if its admirers like, to Brummagem what Cheltenham is to the rest of the world; but beyond that it must not pretend. The hotels at Leamington are very full, but there are many houses to let; that is to say, there is a great concourse of visitors, but few people who mean to make a long stay. How long I may be here I can't tell. I came here out of mere ennui, and to keep O'Brady company; but, as matrimony is a mighty silly affair to all third persons, I do not promise that I shall stay here a long time. At present the originality of the company amuses me; and I have a lingering wish to see how O'Brady, who used to exclaim so much against matrimony, will conduct himself, and whether he realize the hopes of success which he so warmly indulges in. Never, since the day in which the Patriarch Noah shut up a specimen of all created animals in his floating menagerie, has been so incongruous a collection of beings as I saw gathered together at the table d'hote, on the first day I joined it. The loudest talker, and the most important personage, is the Dowager Countess of Die-hard, who, for the last five-andtwenty years, has been keeping poor Burton out of an establishment she is entitled to for life, and of which he will have the succession that is to say, all that his friends, the Jews, will leave him. By virtue of her long residence here she sits at the top of the table; and, as I am a very late arrival, I am so happy as to be quartered at the other end. The table is pretty long; and, although I must ascend in rotation as the upper guests drop off, and as new ones arrive, I console myself with the hope that I shall quit the place altogether before my destiny shall have tontined me up to her ladyship. Blind and stupid as she is, she contrived to learn my name; and, upon the strength of having met me once at the house of a distant relation of mine, upon whom she was then inflicting a visit, she had me apprehended by her maid, and carried before her, to talk about all friends in Ireland. I made a point of not knowing any thing about it; and, after being quite teased out by her impertinence, I revenged myself, and silenced her, by telling her that her. kinsman, Burton, was quite well, and (God forgive me!) that he had recently come into possession of a good |