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speak not of the dreadful sight of church-yards now! the crowded and bare grounds of the scantily covered dead! How often of a Sunday or a holiday summer's evening might then be seen in Ireland, the young and happy girl who made the “old church-yard” her favourite resort, sitting with arms rolled up in her white apron on the grave of one she loved still, from whom she was not separated though the grave of the flesh was beneath her. How often then might be seen old as well as young kneeling by the grave of those they had loved alive, and loved dead; hanging on the rudely-carved Cross, which emblematised their faith, the testimony of that love, the fragile paper garland or the equally fragile flower wreath. These things have passed away and what have come in their stead ?-horrors from which the mind shrinks as well as the

pen. I doubt if the family chesť is still the same necessary and well-stored article of household furniture; if the bright quilted calimanco petticoat of a vivid green or red colour, is still treasured up there as the pride of the housewife; the petticoat that had served two or three generations, and towards

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which tended the aspirations of a fourth. And the flowery and everlasting gown, of a chintz pattern, that was in existence as long as the petticoat, yet neither grew old nor old fashioned.

This bright flowered chintz gown was made to open in front; or, in fact, consisted only of a skirt without any front, fastened up behind, and hanging in drapery at the sides, to show the brilliant quilted petticoat; a white apron came in front leaving a vacant space at the sides; and a white handkerchief covered the neck and was fastened under the apron; the linen was homespun

and home-woven ; the sleeves of the gown fitted tightly to the elbow, and a piece of this home-spun linen turned over them there. A bonnet was not then the fashion, and the curious border of the high-crowned cap turned up at the sides and peaked down in the front like the rim of a man's hat.

Poor, degraded, ill-fated people ! will any hand preserve a picture of your costumes such as they were before 'fashion’ was known to you, or before your national costume was known of all men to be rags alone?

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On working days the fashion as to make was the same, for the people then followed the fashion of their forefathers, and not of their betters, in society. But in those days the material was dark blue linsey Woolsey, material now exchanged for tawdry, washed-out cottons or muslins.

We went by the titles of the Children of the Big House, the Master's Children, or the Young Master and Little Mistress ; by these titles we were known for many miles around us ; and many a time did we unrestrainedly sit by at an Irish meal, of which we were graciously entreated to partake; when the pot of steaming potatoes was set in the centre of the earthen floor, and a pair of thin tongs laid across it, supported a saucer or plate containing a little blackish salt, a small quantity of kitchen,' or at most a salt herring. And the mother, father, and elder children taking any scats that might be there, left the interstices between them to be filled by the little ones; while among them the pride of

them the pride of the family, the creature that really paid the rint, poked his imperative snout, and took from the dish whatcver he selected for himself.

It followed, then, that we were the Prime Ministers through whom all petitions to the Big House were presented.

“ If you plase, young Mistress,” said a girl once, balancing herself on one bare foot, and drawing lines with the point of the other on the floor, “my mother sent me over to you, and she'll be for ever obliged to you, and bound to pray for

you, if you'll give her a pair of mould candles, and some flowers to put over her, for she's dead.”

We went and got the candles and the flowers, and told the girl to give them to her mother, and say

she was welcome to them. There was nothing droll to us in this ; we were accustomed to such like things.

Our stable boy used to go for a length of time to enquire daily after the health of an old lady at a little distance. He always came back and said to our mother—Mrs. Hughes's compliments, ma'am, and she is better, or she is worse, as the case was. One day he returned and said—“Mrs. Hughes's compliments, ma’am, and she's dead.”

CHAPTER III.

ONE imagines sometimes that the love of a daughter to a father must be something higher, more reverent and ennobling in its nature, than that which she spontaneously gives to a mother. I know not why I have only imagined this. The fault, perhaps, was my own.

Our mother—there is no imagination in my memory of her! How beautiful was our mother! how full of love is every thought of her!. beautiful in tenderness, meekness, above all in resignation. Gentle wife, loving mother; patient martyr upon earth ; finally purified spirit in Heaven-thou didst bear the Cross-shalt thou not bear the crown? The Cross was borne in

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