“Independence!” – it is the word of all others, that Irish – men, women, and children – least understand; and the calmness, or rather indifference, with which they submit to dependence, bitter and miserable as it is, must be a source of deep regret to all who “love the land,” or who feel anxious to uphold the dignity of human kind. Let us select a few cases, in different grades, from a single village – such as are abundant in every neighbourhood.

Shane Thurlow, for example, “as dacent a boy,” and Shane's wife, as “clane-skinned a girl,” as any in the world. There is Shane, an active, handsome-looking fellow, leaning over the half door of his cottage, kicking a hole in the wall with his brogue, and picking up all the large gravel within his reach, wherewith to pelt those useful Irish scavengers, the ducks. Let us speak to him.

“Good morrow, Shane!”

“Och! the bright bames of heaven on ye every day! – and kindly welcome, my lady! – and won't ye step in and rest? – it's powerful hot, and a beautiful summer, sure – the Lord be praised!”

Thank you, Shane. I thought you were going to cut the hay-field today; if a heavy shower come, it will be spoiled; it has been fit for the scythe these two days.”

“Sure, it's all owing to that thief o’ the world, Tom Parrell, my lady. Didn't he promise me the loan of his scythe? – and by the same token, I was to pay him for it; and, depinding on that, I didn't buy one – what I've been threatening to do for the last two years.”

“But why don't you go to Carrick and purchase one?”

“To Carrick! Och, 'tis a good step to Carrick, and my toes are on the ground (saving your presence), for I depinded on Tim Jarvis to tell Andy Cappler, the brogue-maker, to do my shoes; and – bad luck to him, the spalpeen! – he forgot it.”