Such are many of the senseless theories that militate against exertion and industry in Ireland, and occasion many to shrink back from the laudible race of honest enterprise, into filth, penury, and crime.  It is this idle and envious crew, who, with a natural aversion to domestic industry, become adepts in politics, and active in those illegal combinations and outrages which retard the prosperity of the country, and bring disgrace upon the great body of its peaceable inhabitants.

In the meantime Ellish was rapidly advancing in life, while such persons were absurdly speculating upon the cause of her success.  Her business was not only increased, but extended.  From crockery, herrings, and salt, she advanced gradually to deal in other branches adapted to her station, and the wants of the people.  She bought stockings, and retailed them every market-day.  By and by a few pieces of soap might be seen in her windows; starch, blue, potash, and candles, were equally profitable.  Pipes were seen stuck across each other, flanked by tape, cakes, children’s books, thimbles, and bread.  In fact, she was equally clever and expert in whatever she undertook.  The consciousness of this, and the reputation of being “a hard honest woman,” encouraged her to get a cask or two of beer, and a few rolls of tobacco.  Peter, when she proposed the two last, consented only to sell them still as smuggled, goods—­sub silentio.  With her usual prudence, however, she declined this.

“We have gone on that way purty far,” she replied, “an’ never got a touch, (* never suffered by the exciseman) thanks to the kindness o’ the neighbors that never informed an us:  but now, Pether, that we’re able we had betther do everything above boord.  You know the ould say, ’long runs the fox, but he’s catched at last:’  so let us give up in time, an’ get out a little bit o’ license.”

“I don’t like that at all,” replied Peter:  “I cain’t warm my heart to the license.  I’ll back you in anything but that.  The gauger won’t come next or near us:  he has thried it often, an’ never made anything of it.  Dang me, but I’d like to have a bit o’ fun with the gauger to see if my hand’s still ready for practice.”

“Oh, thin, Pether, how can you talk that way, asthore?  Now if what I’m sayin’ was left to yourself wouldn’t you be apt to plan it as I’m doin’?—­wouldn’t you, acushla?  Throth, I know you’re to cute an’ sinsible not to do it.”

“Why thin, do you know what, Ellish—­although I didn’t spake it out, upon my faix I was thinkin’ of it.  Divil a word o’ lie in it.”

“Oh, you thief o’ the world, an’ never to tell it to me.  Faix, Pether, you’re a cunnin’ shaver, an’ as deep as a draw well.”

“Let me alone.  Why I tell you if I study an’ lay myself down to it, I can conthrive anything.  When I was young, many a time my poor father, God be good to him! said that if there was any possibility of gettin’ me to take to larnin’, I’d be risin’ out o’ the ashes every mornin’ like a phanix.”