Ql{)t laximx's iHontl)li3 lUsitor. 



187 



fctiaii'.'e iiiiiniHl wliicli iiilialiits no olljci- pnit of 

 llio jjIdliM exi'cpt ilu; Giilnpaf-'os ii^liiiiil.-'. Tljcy 

 ure :ill sizes, wei};liiiig soilieliiiies as liiyli as sev- 

 en liiiiiHied pounds. E. C. 

 New Bedford, Mass., 12 mo. JO, 1810. 



For (he rariTKT's Monthly Visitor. 



To THE Epitor of t7!e Visitor: I l)e<r leave 

 to ask it you can {;ivH me any inliiiinalion, or di- 

 rect nie to any sdimtc of inHirin.ition, icspecting 

 the cnllivalioii of the Ciaitberrij / I wish to know 

 what climate and soil are lier-t adapted to its 

 growth. Whether it will flourish as tin- north as 

 the hi{.'hest Liiitiide of New York ? Also what 

 method is taken to start the plant — uhetlierliy 

 cntliii;.'s or hy roots .^ What is the method of 

 niltura afterward ? And what amount of fruit 

 cati he ohraiiK (I per acre.'' 



r wish to ascertain, also, the ainonnt of red 

 clover seed that can he produced liom an acre of 

 {;ronnd: and the price of ii machine lor tdeaiiin^' 

 the seed — also the market where such tnachine 

 can he had. 



Any charf.'es for trotd)Ie in ftivint; Siii<l informa- 

 tion, i Hill cheerfully pay. 



^'ery resffeotfuljy yours, 



O. H. S. 



Catiton, N. Y., Dec. 23, 1846. 



[In the ahscnce of the editor, we insert the 

 above enquiries to he answered hy liim, or some 

 correspondent, hereafter. — Pubtishirs.] 



The lyectment ; an Irish " Sketch from Life." 



BY MRS. S. C. HAI.L. 



Perhaps it proceeiis from oar having; "Inhahitive- 

 ness*' lari^cly di'velufied. that we are led so cotriplettjy 

 to syinpalliize with those who are coiiipelliil luuler .lay 

 circumstances to quit thuir homes. Evea if " a Hit- 

 ting" he premeditated under the most pleasant pros- 

 pei:ts, there is alway.'^ something to regret — the discom- 

 fort, the bustle, the leave-taking, are all sad enoagh, no 

 matter how brilliant the anticipated future ma}' be — 

 there is something really melancholy in parting either 

 from wlKit has been the :ibodc of joy, or sorrow, for 

 both ecjiially, in oor opinion, endear a locality. A 

 change of residence is always an inconvenience to the 

 rich, but to the Iri-h poor it is frequently onlyiichsnge 

 from the misery of a wretched hovel to the exposare 

 and starvation of the liigh roads. We witnessed a har- 

 rowing f^ceae of this iles'-ription which we cannot easily 

 forget, and it is one which my .\merii;an readers will 

 imagine overdrawn, no matter how we tell the story. 



\Ve had sent the carriage on and were proceeding on 

 foot, a practice which enables us to converse with the 

 peasantry, and increases our enjoynjetit and inform,!- 

 tion. It was a fine, clear evenijig; the sun was sinking 

 behind the richly wooded slopes of this most beautiful 

 countrv; the air was full and balmy ; the rail was crook- 

 ing along the hedges, and the thrush siaging those rich 

 and varied melodies which art can neither imitate nor 

 teach. A lane, or as (he Irish prettily call it, " a boh- 

 reen," branched olf from the high road, and some noble 

 old trees had interlaced their arms above it, so as to 

 form a succession of Gothic arches, the most perfect 

 Bad picturesque we had ever observed. 'J'lie elevated 

 in<losures of this pretty path were tangled by a pro- 

 fusion of flowers — the purple fox-glove, with its fairy- 

 like cups, and the sparkling leaves and knotty tuistings 

 of sly llobin-run-llie-hedge, ndngled with the tasseled 

 meadow-sweet and broad leaved dock — all beautiful 

 according to their kind; then, there were occasional 

 breaks amid the branches, tlirough which the sun-liglit, 

 so bright before its close, ilarted the most vivid liglit, 

 showing the sylvan tracery to the best advantage. It 

 was altogether so extpiisite a bit of light and shade, that 

 it was not, until wo had looked at it some time, that 

 we perceived three iillle children huddled np together 

 at the stump of an old thorn-tree, a few yards down 

 the lane; the eldest, a grown apgirl, supported ;i sleep- 

 ing infant on her knees; llie third, whose costume was 

 as slight as it is possible to fjncy, was crung bitterly, 

 and in its fruitless atteinpts to dry his tears, had smeared 

 his face over so as to give it the appearance of a mask. 

 His trouble was of a nature, which, in LnglanJ, would 

 be iiUcviaied by bread and batter, cured by br^ad and 

 sugar. But the grii'f that caused emotion in th-; eldest 

 girl was altogether dill'erent; it was such as woman 

 can hardly bear. Her features were hardened into the 

 e.xprcssion of despair, and what was more at variance 

 with the first hoars of yonth, sullen despair. An old 

 blind dog sat at her feet with his head on her knee, 

 his thiek sightless eyes upturned to her, while she 

 stroked his head mechanically, and without uttering a 

 word. 



" Let me go back, Essey; let me go back, just for a 

 minute, and I won't cry out; do let uie, and I'll be as 

 tood as gooled, I will," said the boy. 



The girl made no reply, hut clutched his shoulder in 

 her hand, and held him fist. 



There was a strong leKistanco on tlie hoy's part, but 

 it did not continue long, for he agreed to keep still if 

 she'd "loose her hold," which she did, though her 

 hand still retnained on his shoulder. 



W'c were so intcresti^d in the girl's sorrow that we 

 endeavored to alleviate it by kind words, and inquired 

 if " imy of her people were ill." Then she burst into 

 tears, ;md the hardness which rendered her expression 

 so painful to look at, ridaxed. 



"Thank you kindly for asking, only the trouble, 

 ma'am, is hard on us this evenin'; we're turned out; 

 we, that never let the winter gale run till sunmier; that 

 for all we took out of the bit of land, put double in it, 

 and did with half feedin' xooiirr ihun icruiig llie curlli 

 that gave us that sattn?. A\'e're turned out this blessed 

 evenin' to WandiM' the world, or to starve in Navin^ — to 

 die awav from the light of the heavens, and the fresh 

 air, and the fields — oh, there's no use in talking, but 

 my h<;art will burst, it will hurst open in me if 1 tliiidi 

 of the cruijlty of the world. Mow can my father live 

 in a town where there are hundreds of men strong and 

 jible to work as he ? What can lie get to do there ? 

 If they'd let us build a sod house by the side o!' tlie 

 road itself, in the place where he s known, he could 

 get work among the neighbors; but that spoils the look 

 of the country they say! Och hone! sure the starving 

 look of the poor spoils it worse." 



" Ye'r cr)iug worse than me, Essey, now," said the 

 urchin, " anil you promised mother you'd keep in the 

 tears ; let me go see if she's crying still." 



" Stay where you are, Jimmy my hoy, there's a 

 good child; mother can bear it better when she does 

 not see us. Oh, I could beg llie world's bread for her, 

 from door to door, tiioiigh until this blessed hour, let us 

 suffer as we would, we never asked charity from man 

 or mortal; but I could beg, starve (that's easy enough) 

 or die for my own darlin' mother, if God leaves her 

 with us — but he won't; death was printed in her face 

 this morning; die from me; — oil, Holy Virgin, hear my 

 prayer this evenin', and if one must go, take me, Holy 

 Queen of Heaven, and leave her with her husband and 

 her helpless children." 



The poor girl sank upon her knees, still pressing the 

 infml to her heart; we walked on, deeply anxious to 

 ascertain the truth of so sad a statement. A turn in 

 the lane brought us opposite what had been a iic*liiig 

 of three or four cottages; the greater number had been 

 disposed of their inmates a few months before, as 

 was evident Irom the length of time the walls had been 

 uncovered. 'lite one farthest ofl was the present scene 

 of distress. Two men were busied in unroofing the 

 small dwelling, while two others were evidently pre- 

 pared to meet any outbreak on the part of the late ten- 

 ant, or bis fiends, f^everal of the latter were as- 

 sembled, but for the most part seemed rather bent on 

 consoling than defending. 'J'here was the usual scene 

 of confusion, but it was evident that the ejectment had 

 been served upon a cottage possessed of many comforts. 

 A very pale fragile woman was seated upon a substan- 

 tial clump bedstead with her hand closely pressed 

 against her side, as if in pain, while tears flowed down 

 her cheeks. Chickens of various sizes were crowded 

 in an ancipnt coup, and a stout little pig had a sougan 

 fixed to his leg, to prepare him for the road. Stools 

 and iron pots, a dresser, delf and wooden ware, were 

 scattered about, and a serious looking cat was seated 

 on the top of a potato basket, as if uncertain whether 

 the esteem she was held in would compel her friends 

 to forego the sujierstition and carry her with them — 

 little thinking that they had no alteration but to e,\- 

 cliange the Iree air for a wretched room in wretch- 

 ed iSavin, which it was not likely they could long 

 keep. 



"It's Larkins' own fault, I must say that; when the 

 lease of his little ]ilace dropt, he wouldn't take ' No' 

 for an answer, but would keep possession, and I won- 

 der at his doing so, and he so well learned and bright 

 at everything," said one of the men. 



".My own fault!" repeated a strong, haggard look- 

 ing person advancing, while the group of countrymen 

 to whom he had been speaking made way for him. — 

 " Who s.ajs its my own fault — you? — sir, I was born 

 under that thatch that nnw jou stand on; my father 

 ami gramlfallier held the bit of land, and we paid lor 

 it at the highest, and to the last farthing." 



"That ye did, poor man — God help yon!" said ma- 

 ny a voice in tones of the deepest .sympathy. 



" I, with every hard working soul on the estate, got 

 notice to quit, because the agents wants it to be chined 

 of men, that it may i'rc(\ beiists. I had the fiielings of 

 one; llo\ed every stick of them blackened ratters. 

 My father's own hands made the bed that poor broken- 

 hearted woman is sitting on : on that I was born, and 

 on it she brought me five children. The bees that are 

 now sinking in the hushes came from the ould stock; 

 and my father's mother, that they are bringing out 

 now', has sat upon that stone bench for sixty-lour 

 years." 



A very venerable woman had just been carried 

 through the flakes of falling thatch into the open air; 



she seemed hardly conscious of what w.as going for- 

 ward, and yet she gazed around her and from one to 

 another, with an anxious look. 



" Well, we know all that," said the first speaker; 

 " and you ought to know that I am only doing my duty, 

 and you ought to h.ive sense; the gentleman's land is 

 his own, and if he'd rather feed cattle for the market 

 than have the place broke up in little farms, sure it's 

 his own land, not yours; he lets you take every slick 

 that you like away." 



" The law, only a bastard law after all forlhe poor," 

 said Larkins, "gives me them." 

 " And he pays you for )our crop." 

 " And that he can't help, either." 

 " .Xnd yet the granny lliere would not leave it till 

 the roof was oil'. Sure any how the gentleman had a 

 right to tlo what he liked with his own." 



" He had not !" exclaimed the peasant, firmly plant- 

 ing his foot on the ground, and unconsciously assuming 

 an attitude that would have adiled dignity to a lioman 

 senator. " In the sight and light of .\lmighty (iod, no 

 man having plenty, has a right to say to another, ''Go 

 out and starve,' as I shall, and all belonging to mo; 

 starve and beg, and beg and starve, till my bones whiten 

 through my skin, and I die, as others in this country 

 have tlone before me, on the road — (th my (iodl if he 

 hall given me a piece of mountain, or a piece of bog, 

 and lime to bring it round, I'd have worke<l, as I have 

 done all my life — and that's saying enough — for it. 

 Does he call to mind, that the tenant's duty is to pay, 

 and the landlord's to protect .' Hoes he say as a Chris- 

 tian, that any man has a right to turn over scores of 

 his fellow creatures to starvation, when they are willing 

 to be his slaves for food and raiment ? for what more 

 have :my of us ? \V'e lay b} nothing, and have nothing 

 to lay by; yet wo pay our rent. Will any of you gay 

 that God intended that.'"' 



" Then why the devil, Johnny Larkins, my jewel!" 

 said a tight concentrated fellow, walking up to the ex- 

 cited speaker; "why don't you let us starve them all 

 out at onc't? Sorra a better sport we'll desire, and 

 it's under yer roof )e'd be now if ye hud let us take 

 one good hearty fling at them." ^ 



" I never broke the law in my life, James," replied 

 Larkins. 



" Sorca a better ye're oil' than ttiptn that did," an- 

 swered James, stepping back in a most discontented 

 manner. Two women were comforting the poor man's 

 wife, in the best way they could, and anothei was 

 busied in adjusting a bed on a small car, upon which 

 they intended to place the old woman, so as to remove 

 her comfortably. The landlord's agents, in this appa- 

 rently unfeeling proceeding, seemed resolved not to de- 

 sist until the roof was entirtdy removed. 



" I wish, o 1(11,1111)1, ye'd be said and led by us," 

 urged one to IMrs. Ixirkins, who was rocking herself, as 

 the wind rocks a tree that has been more than half up- 

 rooted. " What good can staying here do you, dear ? 

 Sure ye'll stop with us :.s long as ye like before ye go 

 into the close town, and jer breathing so bad, and yo 

 so weak." 



" If they had only let ine die in it," answered the 

 young mother, whose weak, trembling voice recalled 

 the child's opinion so feelingly exjiresscd a few minutes 

 before — ' that death was printed in her fice,' — " It 

 wouldn't have been long. Where's the children?" 



" Sure ye sent them away, they were crying so." 



** And Where's John ?" 



" Is the sight leaving your eyes that \o\} can't see 

 him forciiiiil you, dear!" answered the woman, at the 

 same time looking anxiously in her fice. 



"John, darling!" she exclaimed fervently. In a 

 moment her husband was by her siile. 



"There's a change over her!" whispered the woman 

 to the young man who had profl'ered to take the law in 

 his own hands. " There's a change over her — run for 

 the priest if ye love your own soul." 



Even the man who had been so busy with the roof 

 paused, and silence was only disturbed by the prolonged 

 whistle of a distant blackbird. 



" John, my blessing — my pride — the only love lever 

 had — you'll forgive any hasty word I sjioke, won't ye, 

 my jewel ?" 



" > e never did, darlin," answered the poor fellow; 

 " but what's ov'.-r you, dear ? what ails you? What 

 ails her, ncigbburs? Great Queen of Heaven,' what 

 ails my wile :" 



" Whist, dear!" she said, and raising her hand to 

 his face, she pressed liis cheek still closer to her own. 

 " I've been sickly a long time, John, and was going 

 fast; better I should die before we go into the town — I 

 Willi/ have died then, you know. i'otir face is very 

 thill, diirlin, ulrcudy. O/i may tlie holy saints tare 

 ye IIS yc arc, that I aay know ye in hcuven '. I'ut, I 

 vtonld any way — spake to me, my bird of blessings! — 

 kiss me, dear, and let me lay my head on your bare 

 breast. ISieighbors, ye'll look to him, and the poor 

 motherless children. Oh then has any Christian sent 

 for a priest, that I may not die in my sins!" 



" It's only a faintness, my jewel," said the husband; 

 " it's nothing else — fetch her a drop of water." 



