In all that I have seen in Down and Antrim, the agricultural laborers
seem to be never at any time much above starvation; any exceptionally
hard times bring it home to them. In cases of accident, disease, or old
age, they have no refuge but the workhouse. There is a constant
struggle, as heroic in God's sight as any struggle of their Scottish
ancestors, to escape this dreaded fate. When it does overtake them,
however, the beggar nurses wait upon the sick beggars with a tenderness
that is inexpressibly touching.

Emigration is impossible to the laborer or the hand-loom weaver. They
have no money, they have nothing to sell to make money, and they are
utterly unwilling to be torn from the places where they were born to be
expatriated as beggars, and as beggars set down upon a foreign shore. I
am literally giving utterance to the opinions expressed to me.

I have heard these people loudly accused of extravagance; on enquiry was
told that they bought American bacon and drank tea, whereas, if thrifty,
they would be content with potatoes and buttermilk, or ditto and stir-
about. As the cow has disappeared, and potatoes have been known to fail,
I did not see the extravagance so clearly as I saw the parsimony that
would grudge the hard-worked laborer or the pale over-worked weaver any
nourishment at all.

The charge of spending on whiskey seems more likely by the frightful
amount of whiskey shops. Ireland's whiskey bill is going up into
somewhere among the millions. It is a fearful pity that this tax on the
industry and energy of the people could not be abolished. Truth compels
me to add that faces liquor-painted abound most among the well-dressed
and apparently well-to-do class whom one meets on the way.