“Give me your place, acushla; God will reward you for it; I’m late at the station,” said he, to an old ill-favoured hag that followed next to Mary; and at the same time, to aid his request, slipped half-a-crown into her hand.
The wrinkled face brightened into a kind of wicked intelligence as she muttered in Irish: “‘Tis a gould guinea the same place is worth; but I’ll give it to you for the sake of yer people;” and at the same time pocketing the coin in a canvass pouch, among relics and holy clay, she moved off, to admit him in the line.
Owen’s heart beat almost to bursting, as he found himself so close to Mary; and all his former impatience to justify himself, and to speak to her, fled in the happiness he now enjoyed. No devotee ever regarded the relic of a Saint with more trembling ecstacy than did he the folds of that heavy mantle that fell at his knees; he touched it as men would do a sacred thing. The live-long day he followed her, visiting in turn each shrine and holy spot; and ever, as he was ready to speak to her, some fear that, by a word, he might dispel the dream of bliss he revelled in, stopped him, and he was silent.
It was as the evening drew near, and the Pilgrims were turning towards the lake, beside which, at a small thorn-tree, the last “station” of all was performed, that an old beggar, whose importunity suffered none to escape, blocked up the path, and prevented Mary from proceeding until she had given him something. All her money had been long since bestowed; and she said so, hurriedly, and endeavoured to move forward.
“Let Owen Connor, behyind you, give it, acushla! He’s rich now, and can well afford it,” said the cripple.
She turned around at the words; the action was involuntary, and their eyes met. There are glances which reveal the whole secret of a lifetime; there are looks which dwell in the heart longer and deeper than words. Their eyes met for merely a few seconds; and while in her face offended pride was depicted, poor Owen’s sorrow-struck and broken aspect spoke of long suffering and grief so powerfully, that, ere she turned away, her heart had half forgiven him.
“You wrong me hardly, Mary,” said he, in a low, broken voice, as the train moved on. “The Lord, he knows my heart this blessed day! Pater noster, qui es in colis?’” added he, louder, as he perceived that his immediate follower had ceased his prayers to listen to him. “He knows that I’d rather live and die the poorest – ‘Beneficat tuum nomen!’” cried he, louder. And then, turning abruptly, said:
“Av it’s plazing to you, sir, don’t be trampin’ on my heels. I can’t mind my devotions, an’ one so near me.
“It’s not so unconvaynient, maybe, when they’re afore you,” muttered the old fellow, with a grin of sly malice. And though Owen overheard the taunt, he felt no inclination to notice it.
“Four long years I’ve loved ye, Mary Joyce; and the sorra more encouragement I ever got nor the smile ye used to give me. And if ye take that from me, now – Are ye listening to me, Mary? do ye hear me, asthore? – Bad scran to ye, ye ould varmint! why won’t ye keep behind? How is a man to save his sowl, an’ you making him blasphame every minit?”
“I was only listenin’ to that elegant prayer ye were saying,” said the old fellow, drily.
“‘Tis betther you’d mind your own, then,” said Owen, fiercely; “or, by the blessed day, I’ll teach ye a new penance ye never heerd of afore!”
The man dropped back, frightened at the sudden determination these words were uttered in; and Owen resumed his place.
“I may never see ye again, Mary. ‘Tis the last time you’ll hear me spake to you. I’ll lave the ould man. God look to him! I’ll lave him now, and go be a sodger. Here we are now, coming to this holy well; and I’ll swear an oath before the Queen of Heaven, that before this time to-morrow – ”
“How is one to mind their prayers at all, Owen Connor, if ye be talking to yourself, so loud?” said Mary, in a whisper, but one which lost not a syllable, as it fell on Owen’s heart.
“My own sweet darling, the light of my eyes, ye are!” cried he, as with clasped hands he muttered blessings upon her head; and with such vehemence of gesture, and such unfeigned signs of rapture, as to evoke remarks from some beggars near, highly laudatory of his zeal.
“Look at the fine young man there, prayin’ wid all his might. Ayeh, the Saints give ye the benefit of your Pilgrimage!”
“Musha! but ye’r a credit to the station; ye put yer sowl in it, anyhow!” said an old Jezebel, whose hard features seemed to defy emotion.
Owen looked up; and directly in front of him, with his back against a tree, and his arms crossed on his breast, stood Phil Joyce: his brow was dark with passion, and his eyes glared like those of a maniac. A cold thrill ran through Owen’s heart, lest the anger thus displayed should fall on Mary; for he well knew with what tyranny the poor girl was treated. He therefore took the moment of the pilgrims’ approach to the holy tree, to move from his place, and, by a slightly circuitous path, came up to where Joyce was standing.
“I’ve a word for you, Phil Joyce,” said he, in a low voice, where every trace of emotion was carefully subdued. “Can I spake it to you here?”
Owen’s wan and sickly aspect, if it did not shock, it at least astonished Joyce, for he looked at him for some seconds without speaking; then said, half rudely:
“Ay, here will do as well as any where, since ye didn’t like to say it yesterday.”
There was no mistaking this taunt; the sneer on Owen’s want of courage was too plain to be misconstrued; and although for a moment he looked as if disposed to resent it, he merely shook his head mournfully, and replied: “It is not about that I came to speak; it’s about your sister, Mary Joyce.”
Phil turned upon him a stare of amazement, as quickly followed by a laugh, whose insulting mockery made Owen’s cheek crimson with shame.
“True enough, Phil Joyce; I know your meanin’ well,” said he, with an immense effort to subdue his passion. “I’m a poor cottier, wid a bit of mountain-land – sorra more – and has no right to look up to one like her. But listen to me, Phil!” and here he grasped his arm, and spoke with a thick guttural accent: “Listen to me! Av the girl wasn’t what she is, but only your sister, I’d scorn her as I do yourself;” and with that, he pushed him from him with a force that made him stagger. Before he had well recovered, Owen was again at his side, and continued: – “And now, one word more, and all’s ended between us. For you, and your likings or mis-likings, I never cared a rush: but ‘tis Mary herself refused me, so there’s no more about it; only don’t be wreaking your temper on her, for she has no fault in it.”
“Av a sister of mine ever bestowed a thought on the likes o’ ye, I’d give her the outside of the door this night,” said Joyce, whose courage now rose from seeing several of his faction attracted to the spot, by observing that he and Connor were conversing. “‘Tis a disgrace – divil a less than a disgrace to spake of it!”
“Well, we won’t do so any more, plaze God!” said Owen, with a smile of very fearful meaning. “It will be another little matter we’ll have to settle when we meet, next. There’s a score there, not paid off yet:” and at the word he lifted his hat, and disclosed the deep mark of the scarce-closed gash on his forehead: “and so, good bye to ye.”
A rude nod from Phil Joyce was all the reply, and Owen turned homewards.
If prosperity could suggest the frame of mind to enjoy it, the rich would always be happy; but such is not the dispensation of Providence. Acquisition is but a stage on the road of ambition; it lightens the way, but brings the goal no nearer. Owen never returned to his mountain-home with a sadder heart. He passed without regarding them, the little fields, now green with the coming spring; he bestowed no look nor thought upon the herds that already speckled the mountain-side; disappointment had embittered his spirit; and even love itself now gave way to faction-hate, the old and cherished animosity of party.
If the war of rival factions did not originally spring from the personal quarrels of men of rank and station, who stimulated their followers and adherents to acts of aggression and reprisal, it assuredly was perpetuated, if not with their concurrence, at least permission; and many were not ashamed to avow, that in these savage encounters the “bad blood” of the country was “let out,” at less cost and trouble than by any other means. When legal proceedings were recurred to, the landlord, in his capacity of magistrate, maintained the cause of his tenants; and, however disposed to lean heavily on them himself, in the true spirit of tyranny he opposed pressure from any other hand than his own. The people were grateful for this advocacy – far more, indeed, than they often proved for less questionable kindness. They regarded the law with so much dread – they awaited its decisions with such uncertainty – that he who would conduct them through its mazes was indeed a friend. But, was the administration of justice, some forty or fifty years back in Ireland, such as to excite or justify other sentiments? Was it not this tampering with right and wrong, this recurrence to patronage, that made legal redress seem an act of meanness and cowardice among the people? No cause was decided upon its own merits. The influence of the great man – the interest he was disposed to take in the case – the momentary condition of county politics – with the general character of the individuals at issue, usually determined the matter; and it could scarcely be expected that a triumph thus obtained should have exercised any peaceful sway among the people.
“He wouldn’t be so bould to-day, av his landlord wasn’t to the fore,” was Owen Connor’s oft-repeated reflection, as he ascended the narrow pathway towards his cabin; “‘tis the good backing makes us brave, God help us!” From that hour forward, the gay light-hearted peasant became dark, moody, and depressed; the very circumstances which might be supposed calculated to have suggested a happier frame of mind, only increased and embittered his gloom. His prosperity made daily labour no longer a necessity. Industry, it is true, would have brought more comforts about him, and surrounded him with more appliances of enjoyment; but long habits of endurance had made him easily satisfied on this score, and there were no examples for his imitation which should make him strive for better. So far, then, from the landlord’s benevolence working for good, its operation was directly the reverse; his leniency had indeed taken away the hardship of a difficult and onerous payment, but the relief suggested no desire for an equivalent amelioration of condition. The first pleasurable emotions of gratitude over, they soon recurred to the old customs in every thing, and gradually fell hack into all the observances of their former state, the only difference being, that less exertion on their parts was now called for than before.
Had the landlord been a resident on his property – acquainting himself daily and hourly with the condition of his tenants – holding up examples for their imitation – rewarding the deserving – discountenancing the unworthy – extending the benefits of education among the young – and fostering habits of order and good conduct among all, Owen would have striven among the first for a place of credit and honour, and speedily have distinguished himself above his equals. But alas! no; Mr. Leslie, when not abroad, lived in England. Of his Irish estates he knew nothing, save through the half-yearly accounts of his agent. He was conscious of excellent intentions; he was a kind, even a benevolent man; and in the society of his set, remarkable for more than ordinary sympathies with the poor. To have ventured on any reflection on a landlord before him, would have been deemed a downright absurdity.
He was a living refutation of all such calumnies; yet how was it, that, in the district he owned, the misery of the people was a thing to shudder at? that there were hovels excavated in the bogs, within which human beings lingered on between life and death, their existence like some terrible passage in a dream? that beneath these frail roofs famine and fever dwelt, until suffering, and starvation itself, had ceased to prey upon minds on which no ray of hope ever shone? Simply he did not know of these things; he saw them not; he never heard of them. He was aware that seasons of unusual distress occurred, and that a more than ordinary degree of want was experienced by a failure of the potato-crop; but on these occasions, he read his name, with a subscription of a hundred pounds annexed, and was not that a receipt in full for all the claims of conscience? He ran his eyes over a list in which Royal and Princely titles figured, and he expressed himself grateful for so much sympathy with Ireland! But did he ask himself the question, whether, if he had resided among his people, such necessities for alms-giving had ever arisen? Did he inquire how far his own desertion of his tenantry – his ignorance of their state – his indifference to their condition – had fostered these growing evils? Could he acquit himself of the guilt of deriving all the appliances of his ease and enjoyment, from those whose struggles to supply them were made under the pressure of disease and hunger? Was unconsciousness of all this, an excuse sufficient to stifle remorse? Oh, it is not the monied wealth dispensed by the resident great man; it is not the stream of affluence, flowing in its thousand tiny rills, and fertilising as it goes, we want. It is far more the kindly influence of those virtues which. And their congenial soil in easy circumstances; benevolence, sympathy, succour in sickness, friendly counsel in distress, timely aid in trouble, encouragement to the faint-hearted, caution to the over-eager: these are gifts, which, giving, makes the bestower richer; and these are the benefits which, better than gold, foster the charities of life among a people, and bind up the human family in a holy and indissoluble league. No benevolence from afar, no well wishings from distant lands, compensate for the want of them. To neglect such duties is to fail in the great social compact by which the rich and poor are united, and, what some may deem of more moment still, to resign the rightful influence of property into the hands of dangerous and designing men.
It is in vain to suppose that traditionary deservings will elicit gratitude when the present generation are neglectful. On the contrary, the comparison of the once resident, now absent landlord, excites very different feelings; the murmurings of discontent swell into the louder language of menace; and evils, over which no protective power of human origin could avail, are ascribed to that class, who, forgetful of one great duty, are now accused of causing every calamity. If not present to exercise the duties their position demands, their absence exaggerates every accusation against them; and from the very men, too, who have, by the fact of their desertion, succeeded in obtaining the influence that should be theirs.
Owen felt this desertion sorely. Had Mr. Leslie been at home, he would at once have had recourse to him. Mr. French, the agent, lived on the property – but Mr. French was “a hard man,” and never liked the Connors; indeed, he never forgave them for not relinquishing the mountain-farm they held, in exchange for another he offered them, as he was anxious to preserve the mountain for his own shooting. At the time we speak of, intemperance was an Irish vice, and one which prevailed largely. Whisky entered into every circumstance and relation of life. It cemented friendships and ratified contracts; it celebrated the birth of the newly-born, it consoled the weeping relatives over the grave of the departed; it was a welcome and a bond of kindness, and, as the stirrup-cup, was the last pledge at parting. Men commemorated their prosperity by drink, and none dared to face gloomy fortune without it. Owen Connor had recourse to it, as to a friend that never betrayed. The easy circumstances, in comparison with many others, he enjoyed, left him both means and leisure for such a course; and few days passed without his paying a visit to the “shebeen-house” of the village. If the old man noticed this new habit, his old prejudices were too strong to make him prompt in condemning it. Indeed, he rather regarded it as a natural consequence of their bettered fortune, that Owen should frequent these places; and as he never returned actually drunk, and always brought back with him the current rumours of the day, as gathered from newspapers and passing gossip, his father relied on such scraps of information for his evening’s amusement over the fire.
It was somewhat later than usual that Owen was returning home one night, and the old man, anxious and uneasy at his absence, had wandered part of the way to meet him, when he saw him coming slowly forward, with that heavy weariness of step, deep grief and pre-occupation inspire. When the young man had come within speaking distance of his father, he halted suddenly, and looking up at him, exclaimed, “There’s sorrowful news for ye to-night, father!”
“I knew it! I knew it well!” said the old man, as he clasped his hands before him, and seemed preparing himself to bear the shock with courage. “I had a dhrame of it last night; and ‘tis death, wherever it is.”
“You’re right there. The master’s dead!”
Not another word was spoken by either, as side by side they slowly ascended the mountain-path. It was only when seated at the fire-side, that Owen regained sufficient collectedness to detail the particulars he had learned in the village. Mr. Leslie had died of the cholera at Paris. The malady had just broken out in that city, and he was among its earliest victims. The terrors which that dreadful pestilence inspired, reached every remote part of Europe, and at last, with all the aggravated horrors of its devastating career, swept across Ireland. The same letter which brought the tidings of Mr. Leslie’s death, was the first intelligence of the plague. A scourge so awful needed not the fears of the ignorant to exaggerate its terrors; yet men seemed to vie with each other in their dreadful conjectures regarding it.
All the sad interest the landlord’s sudden death would have occasioned under other circumstances was merged in the fearful malady of which he died. Men heard with almost apathy of the events that were announced as likely to succeed, in the management of the property; and only listened with eagerness if the pestilence were mentioned. Already its arrival in England was declared; and the last lingering hope of the devotee was, that the holy island of St. Patrick might escape its ravages. Few cared to hear what a few weeks back had been welcome news – that the old agent was to be dismissed, and a new one appointed. The speculations which once would have been rife enough, were now silent. There was but one terrible topic in every heart and on every tongue – the Cholera.
The inhabitants of great cities, with wide sources of information available, and free conversation with each other, can scarcely estimate the additional degree of terror the prospect of a dreadful epidemic inspires among the dwellers in unfrequented rural districts. The cloud, not bigger than a man’s hand at first, gradually expands itself, until the whole surface of earth is darkened by its shadow. The business of life stands still; the care for the morrow is lost; the proneness to indulge in the gloomiest anticipations common calamity invariably suggests, heightens the real evil, and disease finds its victims more than doomed at its first approach. In this state of agonising suspense, when rumours arose to be contradicted, reasserted, and again disproved, came the tidings that the Cholera was in Dublin. The same week it had broken out in many other places; at last the report went, that a poor man, who had gone into the market of Galway to sell his turf, was found dead on the steps of the chapel. Then, followed the whole array of precautionary measures, and advices, and boards of health. Then, it was announced that the plague was raging fearfully – the hospitals crowded – death in every street.
Terrible and appalling as these tidings were, the fearful fact never realised itself in the little district we speak of, until a death occurred in the town close by. He was a shopkeeper in Oughterarde, and known to the whole neighbourhood. This solitary instance brought with it more of dreadful meaning than all the shock of distant calamity. The heart-rending wail of those who listened to the news smote many more with the cold tremour of coming death. Another case soon followed, a third, and a fourth succeeded, all fatal; and the disease was among them.
It is only when a malady, generally fatal, is associated with the terrors of contagion, that the measure of horror and dread flows over. When the sympathy which suffering sickness calls for is yielded in a spirit of almost despair, and the ministerings to the dying are but the prelude to the same state, then indeed death is armed with all his terrors. No people are more remarkable for the charities of the sick-bed than the poor Irish. It is with them less a sentiment than a religious instinct; and though they watched the course of the pestilence, and saw few, if any, escape death who took it, their devotion never failed them. They practised, with such skill as they possessed, every remedy in turn. They, who trembled but an hour before at the word when spoken, faced the danger itself with a bold heart; and, while the insidious signs of the disease were already upon them – while their wearied limbs and clammy hands bespoke that their own hour was come, they did not desist from their good offices, until past the power to render them.
It was spring-time, the season more than usually mild, the prospects of the year were already favourable, and all the signs of abundance rife in the land. What a contrast the scene without to that presented by the interior of each dwelling! There, death and dismay were met with at every step. The old man and the infant prostrated by the same stroke; the strong and vigorous youth who went forth to labour in the morning – at noon, a feeble, broken-spirited creature – at sunset, a corpse.
As the minds and temperaments of men were fashioned, so did fear operate upon them. Some, it made reckless and desperate, careless of what should happen, and indifferent to every measure of precaution; some, became paralysed with fear, and seemed unable to make an effort for safety, were it even attainable; others, exaggerating every care and caution, lived a life of unceasing terror and anxiety; while a few – they were unfortunately a very few – summoned courage to meet the danger in a spirit of calm and resolute determination; while in their reformed habits it might be seen how thoroughly they felt that their own hour might be a brief one. Among these was Owen Connor. From the day the malady appeared in the neighbourhood, he never entered the public-house of the village, but, devoting himself to the work of kindness the emergency called for, went from cabin to cabin rendering every service in his power. The poorest depended on him for the supply of such little comforts as they possessed, for at every market-day he sold a sheep or a lamb to provide them; the better-off looked to him for advice and counsel, following his directions as implicitly as though he were a physician of great skill. All recognised his devotedness in their cause, and his very name was a talisman for courage in every humble cabin around. His little ass-cart, the only wheeled vehicle that ever ascended the mountain where he lived, was seen each morning moving from door to door, while Owen brought either some small purchase he was commissioned to make at Oughterarde, or left with the more humble some offering of his own benevolence.
“There’s the salt ye bid me buy, Mary Cooney; and here’s fourpence out of it, – do ye all be well, still?”
“We are, and thank ye, Owen.” “The Lord keep ye so!” “How’s Ned Daly?” “He’s off, Owen dear; his brother James is making the coffin; poor boy, he looks very weak himself this morning.”
The cart moved on, and at length stopped at a small hovel built against the side of a clay ditch. It was a mere assemblage of wet sods with the grass still growing, and covered by some branches of trees and loose straw over them. Owen halted the ass at the opening of the miserable den, through which the smoke now issued, and at the same moment a man, stooping double to permit him to pass out into the open air, came forward: he was apparently about fifty years of age – his real age was not thirty; originally a well-formed and stout-built fellow, starvation and want had made him a mere skeleton. His clothes were, a ragged coat, which he wore next his skin, for shirt he had none, and a pair of worn corduroy trousers; he had neither hat, shoes, nor stockings; but still, all these signs of destitution were nothing in comparison with the misery displayed in his countenance. Except that his lip trembled with a convulsive shiver, not a feature moved – the cheeks were livid and flattened – the dull grey eyes had lost all the light of intelligence, and stared vacantly before him.
“Well, Martin, how is she?”
“I don’t know, Owen dear,” said he, in a faltering voice; “maybe ‘tis sleeping she is.”
Owen followed him within the hut, and stooping down to the fire, lighted a piece of bogwood to enable him to see. On the ground, covered only by a ragged frieze coat, lay a young woman quite dead: her arm, emaciated and livid, was wrapped round a little child of about three years old, still sleeping on the cold bosom of its mother.
“You must take little Patsy away,” said Owen in a whisper, as he lifted the boy in his arms; “she’s happy now.”
The young man fell upon his knees and kissed the corpse, but spoke not a word; grief had stupified his senses, and he was like one but half awake. “Come with me, Martin; come with me, and I’ll settle every thing for you.” He obeyed mechanically, and before quitting the cabin, placed some turf upon the fire, as he was wont to do. The action was a simple one, but it brought the tears into Owen’s eyes. “I’ll take care of Patsy for you till you want him. He’s fond of me of ould, and won’t be lonesome with me;” and Owen wrapped the child in his greatcoat, and moved forwards.
When they had advanced a few paces, Martin stopped suddenly and muttered, “She has nothing to drink!” and then, as if remembering vaguely what had happened, added, “It’s a long sleep, Ellen dear!”
Owen gave the directions for the funeral, and leaving poor Martin in the house of one of the cottiers near, where he sat down beside the hearth, and never uttered a word; he went on his way, with little Patsy still asleep within his arms.
“Where are you going, Peggy?” asked Owen, as an old lame woman moved past as rapidly as her infirmity would permit: “you’re in a hurry this morning.”
“So I am, Owen Connor – these is the busy times wid me – I streaked five to-day, early as it is, and I’m going now over to Phil Joyce’s. What’s the matter wid yourself, Owen? sit down, avich, and taste this.”
“What’s wrong at Phil’s?” asked Owen, with a choking fulness in his throat.
“It’s the little brother he has; Billy’s got it, they say.
“Is Mary Joyce well – did ye hear?”
“Errah! she’s well enough now, but she may be low before night,” muttered the crone; while she added, with a fiendish laugh, “her purty faytures won’t save her now, no more nor the rest of us.”
“There’s a bottle of port wine, Peggy; take it with ye, dear. ‘Tis the finest thing at all, I’m tould, for keeping it off – get Mary to take a glass of it; but mind now, for the love o’ ye, never say it was me gav it. There’s bad blood between the Joyces and me, ye understand.”
“Ay, ay, I know well enough,” said the hag, clutching the bottle eagerly, while opening a gate on the roadside, she hobbled on her way towards Phil Joyce’s cabin.
It was near evening as Owen was enabled to turn homewards; for besides having a great many places to visit, he was obliged to stop twice to get poor Patsy something to eat, the little fellow being almost in a state of starvation. At length he faced towards the mountain, and with a sad heart and weary step plodded along.
“Is poor Ellen buried?” said he, as he passed the carpenter’s door, where the coffin had been ordered.
“She’s just laid in the mould – awhile ago.”
“I hope Martin bears up better; – did you see him lately?”
“This is for him,” said the carpenter, striking a board with his hammer; “he’s at peace now.”
“Martin! sure he’s not dead? – Martin Neale, I mean.”
“So do I too; he had it on him since morning, they say; but he just slipped away without a word or a moan.”
“O God, be good to us, but the times is dreadful!” ejaculated Owen.
“Some says it’s the ind of the world’s comin’,” said an old man, that sat moving his stick listlessly among the shavings; “and ‘twould be well for most of us it was too.”
“Thrue for you, Billy; there’s no help for the poor.”
No sentiment could meet more general acceptance than this – none less likely to provoke denial. Thrown upon each other for acts of kindness and benevolence, they felt from how narrow a store each contributed to another’s wants, and knew well all the privations that charity like this necessitated, at the same time that they felt themselves deserted by those whose generosity might have been exercised without sacrificing a single enjoyment, or interfering with the pursuit of any accustomed pleasure.
There is no more common theme than the ingratitude of the poor – their selfishness and hard-heartedness; and unquestionably a life of poverty is but an indifferent teacher of fine feelings or gentle emotions. The dreary monotony of their daily lives, the unvarying sameness of the life-long struggle between labour and want, are little suggestive of any other spirit than a dark and brooding melancholy: and it were well, besides, to ask, if they who call themselves benefactors have been really generous, and not merely just? We speak more particularly of the relations which exist between the owner of the land and those who till it; and where benevolence is a duty, and not a virtue depending on the will: not that they, in whose behalf it is ever exercised, regard it in this light – very far from it! Their thankfulness for benefits is generally most disproportioned to their extent; but we are dissatisfied because our charity has not changed the whole current of their fortunes, and that the favours which cost us so little to bestow, should not become the ruling principle of their lives.