fastidious who cannot employ his half-hour.  Pity it is, when there is so much good to eat, that people will not partake of it like civilized beings, and with that air of cheerful thankfulness that all other nations more or less express when enjoying the earth’s bounties.  But true it is, that there is a spirit of discontent in the Yankee, that seems to accept of benefits with a tone of dissatisfaction, if not distrust.  I once made this remark to an excellent friend of mine now no more, who, however, would not permit of my attributing this feature to the Americans exclusively, adding, “Where have you more of this than in Ireland? and surely you would not call the Irish ungrateful?” He illustrated his first remark by the following short anecdote:—­

The rector of the parish my friend lived in was a man who added to the income he derived from his living a very handsome private fortune, which he devoted entirely to the benefit of the poor around him.  Among the objects of his bounty one old woman—­a childless widow, was remarkably distinguished.  Whether commiserating her utter helplessness or her complete isolation, he went farther to relieve her than to many, if not all, the other poor.  She frequently was in the habit of pleading her poverty as a reason for not appearing in church among her neighbours; and he gladly seized an opportunity of so improving her condition, that on this score at least no impediment existed.  When all his little plans for her comfort had been carried into execution, he took the opportunity one day of dropping in, as if accidentally, to speak to her.  By degrees he led the subject to her changed condition in life—­the alteration from a cold, damp, smoky hovel, to a warm, clean, slated house—­the cheerful garden before the door that replaced the mud-heap and the duck-pool—­and all the other happy changes which a few weeks had effected.  And he then asked, did she not feel grateful to a bountiful Providence that had showered down so many blessings upon her head?

“Ah, troth, its thrue for yer honour, I am grateful,” she replied, in a whining discordant tone, which astonished the worthy parson.

“Of course you are, my good woman, of course you are—­but I mean to say, don’t you feel that every moment you live is too short to express your thankfulness to this kind Providence for what he has done?”

“Ah, darlin’, it’s all thrue, he’s very good, he’s mighty kind, so he is.”

“Why then, not acknowledge it in a different manner?” said the parson, with some heat—­“has he not housed you, and fed you, and clothed you?”

“Yes, alanah, he done it all.”

“Well, where is your gratitude for all these mercies?”

“Ah, sure if he did,” said the old crone, roused at length by the importunity of the questioner—­“sure if he did, doesn’t he take it out o’ me in the corns?”

CHAPTER XLIV.