fear to tell truths which they deem to be unpalatable, while perhaps their own palates are being feasted on the good things of the party who declaims against their country: thus permitting the continued existence of prejudice and consequent estrangement.

It is in no small degree amusing to observe the attempt made, in addition, to disguise the fact that the delinquent I speak of (I had almost written renegade) is an Irishman. No wonder that he should attempt the disguise, for he must deeply feel his delinquency. In all cases such as this, the Cockney twang and occasional curtailment is assumed to overcome the brogue, but in vain. For the first half dozen words of each paragraph in a conversation it gets on well enough, but the conclusion is sometimes exquisitely ridiculous.

I had the honour to meet at dinner recently, a person of this class, and a conversation having arisen on the subject, he said, "I aam pe-fectly ce-tain no one caaen know that I aam an I-ishman;" and the next instant, turning to a servant, he added, "Po-ta, if you plaze." When this thoroughly low-bred Irishism came out I could not help smiling, and caught at the same moment the eye of a lady opposite, who seemed greatly amused. In a few minutes after, she said, evidently for the purpose of having another trial of the Anglo-Irishman, "Pray, may I help you to a potato?"—the killing reply was, "Pon my hona' I neva' ate pittatis at all at all."

This was too much for the lady, as well as for myself; so we laughed together. The Irish gentleman, however, perfectly unconscious of the cause.

Having subsequently mentioned the circumstance to an "Irishman in London," who does not fear to acknowledge his country, he said, "O! the feeling descends lower still—the better class of labourers attempt to speak so that they shall not be known." Continuing, he said, "A porter in our establishment, who is an Irishman, came to me the other day, and speaking very confidentially, whispered, 'Sure now, Misthur ——, you woudn't guiss be me taulk, thit I wus an Irishmin.'" "Certainly not," said my friend, laughing, when the fellow replied, quite happily, "Whi-thin that's right any how."

Who will excuse the man in a better grade who panders to prejudices, and not only forgets the country of his birth, but aids, by consent, to let her remain in misery? But must we not excuse the low and helpless, who are driven by such prejudices to keep themselves in existence by following the example of those above them? who, thus, have double sin to answer for; their own, and that which their dastardly conduct creates. Still, why should the unhappy labourer who feels that the tone of his voice keeps bread from his mouth, not wish it changed?

"Move on," said a policeman to a poor Irishman, who was gazing with astonishment at a shop window in the Strand, his eyes and mouth open equally, with intensity of admiration. But Paddy neither heard nor moved. "Move on, Sir, I say," came in a voice of command delivered into his very ear. "Arrah, ph-why?" said the poor fellow, looking up with wonder, and still retaining his place. "You must move on, you Irish vagabond," now roared the policeman, "and not stop the pathway," accompanying the "must" with a push of no very gentle nature. Paddy did move, for he could not help it; but as he turned away from the sight which was yielding him harmless enjoyment, to the forgetfulness of misery for the moment, and perhaps to create in him desires for better things, and give him greater energy to work and labour for them; he was rudely branded, with a mark of debasement, and I could see in the poor fellow's eye and gait, though labourer he was, pride and degradation contending for the mastery; but the latter conquered, and he did "move on," almost admitting by the act that he was "AN IRISH VAGABOND."

The position of the lower class of Irish in England is evidently not to be envied, but what is it in Ireland?

In the paper annexed, on "The Potato Truck System of Ireland," will be found the ground-work of the misery of the peasantry. The whole recompense for their labour is the potato. If it fail, they starve. In summer's heat and winter's cold the potato is their only food; water their only drink. They hunger from labour and exertion—the potato satisfies their craving appetite. Sickness comes, and they thirst from fever—water quenches their burning desire. Nature overcomes disease, and they long for food to re-invigorate their frame. What get they?—the potato! The child sinks in weakness towards its grave. What holds it betwixt life and death?—the potato. It is the Alpha and Omega of their existence. A blessing granted by Providence to man, but made by man a curse to his fellow-beings. From what causes come the charges made, and made with truth, against the Irish peasant, of "indolence" and "filth in and about their habitations?"—One and all from that dreadful system, the "potato truck!"

Tourists tell that "the cabin of the Irish peasant must be approached through heaps of manure at either side, making it necessary to step over pool after pool, to reach the entrance." This is no more than fact, but the cause should be told too.

From the detail of the truck-system, it will be seen that the unfortunate peasant is paid for his labour by land to cultivate the potatoes which sustain his existence, and these potatoes cannot be effectively grown without manure. His cabin is usually situate on some road-side, his potato-garden rarely with it, and the only spot he possesses, upon which he can collect manure to obtain food for himself and family throughout the year, is the little space reserved before his door. He has nothing else, it may be said, in the world, but that manure. It is that which is to yield sustenance to his family, and if he have it not, they starve. If put outside the precincts of his holding it is lost to him, and that which he collects scrap after scrap from the road side, or elsewhere—that upon which his life actually depends, is too precious to be risked beyond his care. Why should he be blamed then for the apparent "filth" which surrounds it? Whether is it his fault, or that of the system which has driven him to this degrading necessity? Not his, surely!

Then he is described as to be seen "supporting his door-frame, and smoking his 'dhudeen,'[1] while he should be at work." It is true; but whence his seeming idleness? The truck system again! He is engaged by the year to some farmer, and is bound to do his work, for which he gets his potato land; but the farmer is not bound, as he should be, to give him continuous labour throughout the year. And many a day, and half-day, and quarter-day is cut off his year's labour, when the weather, or the farmer's absence, or his mighty will and pleasure, may make him think it fit to stop the work. When this occurs, and it is sadly frequent, it is impossible that the poor labourer can either seek or find a half, or even a whole day's labour. He has no garden, or patch of ground upon which he might expend with profit his leisure, or his extra time; he has nothing to occupy him; nor can he make an occupation perhaps, for he has not the most trifling means to obtain even lime to whitewash his cabin. Then, if he do smoke his "dhudeen, leaning against his door-way," where so proper for him to be, as with his wife and children? And is the so-named "weed of peacefulness"