my country would think it beneath them to join in: So that the poor Irish are quite looked down = upon by Scotch people in the same station with themselves-that is, who make no higher wages than the Irish might do if they chose, and which numbers of them do make, for they are excellent labourers when they like; and though I have not heard of their rising into places of trust with their employers, yet they are known to be clever, and sharp, and strong in body, so that, when hands are wanted, they are sure to get work. But, instead of doing as our people do with their wages, that is, after reserving what is necessary for plain food and clothes, putting a little into a savings bank, or society box, against a time of sickness or distress, or educating their children, or purchasing some small bit of furniture for themselves,—instead of spending their wages in this way, they fling them away so as to have no return, so that they never seem a bit the better for any thing they gain, and are looked upon by our respectable work people as a set of uneducated savages. It was therefore hard on me, when I returned to Scotland, to be asked the questions my acquaintances wished me to answer; for they really desired to know whether the Irish lived in the same way in their own country that they did in ours; and they knew that, though I am shy and silent with strangers, yet that few things pass where I am

that I do not notice. I had nothing, however, to tell them which would have raised their opinion of the Irish; for it is a far different thing to see and feel kindness and to tell about it, so I just put them off by saying that I had been very happy during my visit; and that, if I had seen things that I thought might have been better, I could think but little of them where every one was so kind to me.

But to return to the many thoughts I had about how I could make any return for the kindness of my Irish friends. It came into my head one day, just after a friend and I had been packing up a box containing some things to send as a remembrance to our Irish relations,-it came into my head-"Well, to be sure, this boxful of little matters will show them that we still feel for them with kindness; but what real good will it do them? If I could only do any thing to rouse them from that thoughtless, idle kind of state in which they live. But how can I return all their kindness by finding fault? What if I could just make a kind of story of what I saw when among them, and describe how it appeared to a stranger, I could send it to them, and they would soon find out who were intended." I could not get this thought out of my head after it had once got in. It always returned whenever I thought of my Irish friends. For a time, however, I could not begin to write their faults, and

= perhaps I never should have found the heart to do so, had I not become a little hurt and offended at them. When we parted I really had blamed myself; for, though I felt warmly for them, yet their kindness seemed so far to exceed mine, that I thought I had a cold heart compared to theirs; and for some months I wrote very often to them, and felt that I liked them the better the longer I remembered them. But with them it seemed, "out of sight out of mind ;" for, e except two letters, never a line have I got from one of them to this day. And there is another person now with me who has more cause to be displeased than I have at their silence-but more of him afterwards. This seeming neglect, however, reminded me of that fault in my friends which appeared to me the cause of the others I had observed most-that of idleness—a careless, listless idleness. Never did I see time wasted as I saw it the month I was with them. And when I thought how much depended upon the manner in which we spent our short course here—that it would decide our lot for a long, long, neverending eternity-I could not resist writing the following little history, in the hope that it might call the attention of my kind friends at―(I shall not just name the place, but I shall call it Ballinagh) to take some concern regarding such things as deserve the attention of men who possess rational minds and immortal souls.

ANDREW'S STORY.

THE winter had been cold and wet, and my trade, as a gardener, had exposed me much to the weather; for, though cold, there had been little frost, so that I had been constantly able to work at something or another; but the damp, joined to my walks into Edinburgh in the evenings to attend the School of Arts, had, though I am in general very robust, brought on a kind of feverish cold, which continued to hang about me in the spring. I had also met with a disappointment which lay heavy on my spirits, and my friends began to notice that I did not look like myself. They spoke in this way to my mother, who keeps my house for me, and after refusing till I was ashamed, at last, just to please her, I consented to consult a doctor. gentleman, after seeing me two or three times, advised me to give up working for a few weeks, -and go to the country, away from the east coast during the season that the sharp winds prevailed from that quarter. I only told my mother that the doctor had advised idleness and

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the country; for his bidding me avoid the cold east winds let me see that he thought worse of my complaints than I had done myself. This made me very thoughtful; for death, though perhaps not very near, yet, if we know that it may be in the cup we have begun to drink, has something wonderfully alarming in it—at least it had so to me. I kept up a good heart, however, in presence of my mother, and all she thought of was to prepare for my departure.

My mother had a younger sister of whom she very often spoke. This sister had, many years before, married an Irishman. He had come into Galloway in search of work, when she was servant to a lady who lived near Port-Patrick. This marriage had sorely grieved my mother; for, though she had heard a good enough report of the young man, yet such a marriage was not expected to turn out well, just because the Irish took no more pains then than they do now to make their country be respected among strangers. My mother mourned over her sister as one who had been led away, by fine speeches and a handsome outside, to unite her lot for life with a wild uneducated Irishman, perhaps a Papist. Since that time my mother and her sister had never met, but letters had often passed between them; and my aunt's account of her husband and his friends had continued far better than my mother looked for. My aunt's husband was the