Transcribed from the 19th Century Religious Tract Society edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org

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No. 187.

THE
IRISH PEASANT;

OR

THE HISTORY OF PETER LACY,

AND HIS WIFE SUSAN

LONDON:
Printed for
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY,
Instituted 1799
AND SOLD AT THEIR DEPOSITORY, 56, PATERNOSTER-ROW;
BY J. NISBET, 21, BERNERS-STREET, OXFORD-STREET; AND
BY OTHER BOOKSELLERS.

CHAP. I.

It was on a dull, cold evening that Peter Lacy, a poor labourer, having finished the clump of turf which he had engaged to do, put on his ragged coat, and walked up to the door of his employer to receive his wages. “I have no silver at present,” said the gentleman, “but come next Monday, and you shall be paid.”

It was three miles to his home, and, on his way, he passed the cabin of a poor man whom he knew very well. There was a little garden before it, and every thing looked clean and decent. It was true the family who lived there were very poor, and met with many crosses; but, let what would happen, Michael Connor and his wife were always cheerful, and were never heard to complain, because they were sure that nothing happens by chance, having read in the Bible, that not even a sparrow falleth to the ground without the knowledge of God.

“There now,” said Lacy to himself, “there’s the comfort of a quiet wife! Mary Connor is always good tempered and mild; while my Susan is for making bad worse, by her crying and scolding at every hand’s turn. A dry morsel with a quiet house, is better than plenty of provision with grumbling.” Lacy did not know that Solomon had said nearly the same: for Lacy never read the Bible; and as for going to prayers, he left it to those who had a better coat than his to put on.

“Well neighbour,” said Connor, “how does the world jog with you?”

“It’s all on three legs,” said Lacy, “for ’tis money makes the mare to go, and money I have none.”

“I wish I could help you,” said Connor, “but I got my week’s wages yesterday, and lent them to Wilson, whose wife is sick in bed: he was to pay me to-day, but went home without thinking of it; however, walk in and rest yourself.”

Mary welcomed her husband with smiles, and had made the room very neat against his return. The table was scoured as clean as sand and water could make it; the hearth was nicely swept, and the dinner was over the fire.

“Come sit down,” said the good-natured Connor, “eat an egg, and Mary shall put a bit of bacon on the gridiron that we bought the other day.” “No, no,” replied Lacy, “keep it for your dinner to-morrow, you will have but a poor meal at best.”

Mary understood what he meant: she hung down her head for a minute; but then looking cheerful again, she said, “If you have not got the money, my dear, we must do the best we can—while God sends us health, and thankful hearts, we need not complain at the want of a meal’s meat.”

“You are a good woman, Mrs. Connor,” said Lacy; “my Susan will give me no such comfort.”

“Perhaps,” said Mary, “you do not encourage her to do so.”

“Encourage,” replied Lacy; “I don’t know what you mean by that—I work hard all the week, never spending a farthing at the public house on Saturdays, and on Sundays we have a snug, piping hot dinner, and a glass of punch into the bargain.”

“And how do you pass the evening?” asked Connor.

“Oh, very well,” says Lacy; “Susan, perhaps, puts on her cloak, and goes to Nancy Dillon, while her good man and I smoke a pipe quietly together.”

“Do you never go to prayers?” said Mary.

“To be sure I do, now and then,” replied Lacy, “and Susan goes whenever she gets a new riband to her old hat, to make her look decent. Indeed she went twice, to my certain knowledge, the day that his Honour’s housekeeper gave her the new stuff gown.”

Mary shook her head, and Lacy was displeased.

“May be,” said he, “you think we are not religious, as you call it; but I’ll be bound we’re as good Christians as those that make such a fuss about it. I learned the ten commandments when I was a boy, and remember them well enough to keep them now.”

“And do you think keeping the commandments in the sort of way you talk of, will bring you to heaven?” said Connor.

“Indeed I do,” replied Lacy, “what else should bring me there?”

“And are you sure,” said Connor, “that you keep the commandments, and never break one of them?”

“It’s myself that thinks so,” said Lacy, “and I defy you, or any one else, to say to the contrary.”

“I will show you presently,” said Connor, taking down a neat Bible.

“No thank you,” said Lacy, “I could have enough of that if I liked it; but I am not fond of preaching: it’s poor feeding for those who want bread.”

“Isn’t the Bible said to be the bread of life?” cried Mary.

“It may be so,” said he, “but I can’t live on a book.”

“Ah, neighbour, if you would but learn to look up to God!” said Mary.

“Pho!” replied Lacy, rising, and throwing his spade over his shoulder, “Connor, with all your talk, you are worse off than me—how will you feed those four hungry little ones to-morrow?”

“We don’t fret ourselves much about that,” said Mary, for “He that feedeth the young ravens, has promised that he will not suffer the children of his servants to cry for food in vain.”

“And if they do,” added Connor, “we can fast: the Son of God knew hunger and thirst for many days, and shall we grumble if he lets us feel them for one?”

Lacy could not think of any answer beyond “good night.” As he walked home his temper got worse: he wondered why Connor should cant like a preacher; and he thought Mary’s content was all pretence; but as it made her so quiet, he wished his Susan could learn it.

People often bring on a quarrel by seeming to expect one. When Susan saw him she ran with joyful looks saying, “Oh, Peter! I’ve got the nicest plan for to-morrow!—But, how sulky you are! What is the matter?—Where is the tea? Why, you look as black as that cloud.”

“Aye, wife,” he replied, “I am the cloud, and you are the thunder—there’s neither tea, nor potatoes, nor money to buy them.”

“No money?—Where are your wages?”

“The gentleman hadn’t silver or brass in his company,” said Lacy, “so now begin to scold.”

“There, there,” screamed Susan, “you are always picking a quarrel with me, because you find me so easy with you. No wages! no tea!—and you to be sent home without a penny in your pocket.”

She went on in this way for a long time; then looking at a parcel which lay carefully folded up, on a chair, her voice grew very sad, and she whined out,—“There! I’ve been working my poor fingers to the bone this live-long day! and I’ve turned my gown from top to bottom, till it looks as good as new; and I was going to ask Nancy Dillon to drink tea, and walk out among the neighbours, and all—but I am an unhappy creature, and you are a wicked, bad man to do so.” When, just as her voice was lost with crying and scolding, the door opened, and Connor came in.

“I ask pardon,” said he, “for coming in so smart to ye: but I ran all the way, to ask ye to come and dine with us to-morrow—Wilson brought the money, and we shall have a bit of meat for you.”

Susan dried her eyes, unfolded her stuff gown, and smiled. “Thank you kindly,” said Lacy, “but you have so many of your own.”

“Never mind,” replied Connor—“the more the merrier; come early, and go to prayers with us.”