The Portland daily press., 1864-06-15
Wednesday Morning, June l5, 1868.
Gail Hamilton's Essay.

God bless the Irishi i cannot choose but
love them. They do unearthly things, |
know, and are grief of heart to the sorely-
tried housewives. One whole winter did
Bridget sweep my room, and invariably set
the table with the drawer toward the wall.
Never by any mistake did it happen to come
right side out. Patsy had way Of swooping
up all the contents OF all the wash-hand-
stands, in her regular round with broom aud
duster, and distributing them again with out
respect of persons. Accordingly, your own
stand would be garnished with the tooth
brush OF your neighbor on the left, the hair
brush of your neighbor on the right, the nail
brush OF your neighbor above, the hat-brush
OF your neighbor below. But Patsy Is dia-
mond in the rough. i wrote a love-letter for
her once. She came TO me beaining with
ruddy shyness, and, after backing and filling
for fifteen minutes, gave me to understand
that her lover was by "the far wash OF Aus
tralasian seas" and would write letter for
her. He was a fond swain, but she had been
coy and coquettisb, and now that he was so
far away her heart relented. Did write TO
him? Of course i did, coDiecturing, to the
best OF my ability, what manner OF u docu-
ment loye-letter should be, and determining
that at least il should not lack the quality
which gives it name. So, after exhausting
my own vocabulary, l had recourse TO the
poets, aud quoted Tennyson. 1t smote me to
the heart to look up when had read 1t to
her, aud see her beautiful almond eyes filed
with tears; for though ones own love letters
may be . serious enough matter, one can
hardly voice another's tenderness with entire
good faith.
''oh lsaid Patsy with a sigh from the very bot
tom OF her warm Irish heart, "them is jes my
feelin's," and even put her head back through
the door after going out, TO add, "An' sure, ye
must have had them feelin's yourself, or We
niver could have done It,"
"Ah, Patsy!r said-but never mind what
said.
God bless the Irish They supply an ele-
ment that Is wanting TO our Anglo Saxon
blood, the easy, eloquent, picturesque race.
Their rest Is such cushion 10 ourrestlessuess.
As they mount the ladder, their individuali-
ties lose outline, but an Irish poor family is
worldwide from an American poor family.
The Americans win be SO sharp and angular,
and clearly defined. They will have such an
air OF having seen better days, and not seeing
them again. Their poverty is self conscious,
and draws comparisons. A painful scrubbi-
ness Is In the air. Everything is neat, white
washed, and made the most OF. Evidently they
are struggling against tate. They contest ev-
cry inch OF ground. II you offer them assist
ance you must double and turn, and ten to one
give mortal offease after ALL know these are
Il
suppose they are one of the bases of greatness;
but for solid comfort, give me an Irish shanty,
where all are dirty and happy and contenied.
For the spare, STOPPING American mother,
with thin hair, pointed elbows, and never few
er than forty years, you have the Irish matron
always young,-red, round arms, luxuriantly
full figure, great white teeth, head set back,
and royal hair. You are received with nom
chalant courtesy. and your remainder bis
cult with graceful gratitude. No care fur
rows any forehead. Ii the baby creeps into
the ashes, one blacksmithy arm whips him out
again as good as new. Ia winter the air Is
warm with the mingled odor OF soapsuds, boil
ing cabbage and fragrant tobacco. In the sum-
mer they set their wash-tuos at the back door,
and, in a sensible scantiness OF costume, rub to
the robins song, and never seem to look for
ward TO possible presidency. They float
across the tide acquiescent. Thus poverty is
robbed OF its sting.
Ii one must be poor, it Is so much easier TO
be comfortable, about II. And il one is thor
oughly comfortable, what matter whether one
lives 10 one room or in twenty?
God bless the Irish! Their strong Arms are
lifted, their warm hearts are beating, side by
side with ours, for the honor and life of their
adopted country. Does famine impend over
their island home? We have enough and TO
spare. From our bursting granaries, from
our larders over full. let their tables be spread
with plenty. Surely the bread, the few crumbs
which we cast upon the waters many days
ago, are already returned to US In truth and
loyalty. And when their civilization and
Christianity are brought abreast with their
Unborn poetry, Ireland shall come forth fair as
the sun, clear as the moon, and terrible us an
army with banners.