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.”