Transcribed from the 19th Century Religious Tract Society edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org

No. 187.

THE
IRISH PEASANT;

OR

THE HISTORY OF PETER LACY,

AND HIS WIFE SUSAN

LONDON:
Printed for
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY,
Instituted 1799
AND SOLD AT THEIR DEPOSITORY, 56, PATERNOSTER-ROW;
BY J. NISBET, 21, BERNERS-STREET, OXFORD-STREET; AND
BY OTHER BOOKSELLERS.

p. 2 CHAP. I.

It was on a dull, cold evening that Peter Lacy, a poor labourer, having finished the clump of turf which he had engaged to do, put on his ragged coat, and walked up to the door of his employer to receive his wages.  “I have no silver at present,” said the gentleman, “but come next Monday, and you shall be paid.”

It was three miles to his home, and, on his way, he passed the cabin of a poor man whom he knew very well.  There was a little garden before it, and every thing looked clean and decent.  It was true the family who lived there were very poor, and met with many crosses; but, let what would happen, Michael Connor and his wife were always cheerful, and were never heard to complain, because they were sure that nothing happens by chance, having read in the Bible, that not even a sparrow falleth to the ground without the knowledge of God.

“There now,” said Lacy to himself, “there’s the comfort of a quiet wife!  Mary Connor is always good tempered and mild; while my Susan is for making bad worse, by her crying and scolding at every hand’s turn.  A dry morsel with a quiet house, is better than plenty of provision with grumbling.”  Lacy did not know that Solomon had said nearly the same: for Lacy never read the Bible; and as for going to prayers, he left it to those who had a better coat than his to put on.

“Well neighbour,” said Connor, “how does the world jog with you?”

“It’s all on three legs,” said Lacy, “for ’tis money makes the mare to go, and money I have none.”

“I wish I could help you,” said Connor, “but I got my week’s wages yesterday, and lent them to Wilson, whose wife is sick in bed: he was to pay me to-day, but went home without thinking of it; however, walk in and rest yourself.”

p. 3 Mary welcomed her husband with smiles, and had made the room very neat against his return.  The table was scoured as clean as sand and water could make it; the hearth was nicely swept, and the dinner was over the fire.

“Come sit down,” said the good-natured Connor, “eat an egg, and Mary shall put a bit of bacon on the gridiron that we bought the other day.”  “No, no,” replied Lacy, “keep it for your dinner to-morrow, you will have but a poor meal at best.”

Mary understood what he meant: she hung down her head for a minute; but then looking cheerful again, she said, “If you have not got the money, my dear, we must do the best we can—while God sends us health, and thankful hearts, we need not complain at the want of a meal’s meat.”

“You are a good woman, Mrs. Connor,” said Lacy; “my Susan will give me no such comfort.”

“Perhaps,” said Mary, “you do not encourage her to do so.”

“Encourage,” replied Lacy; “I don’t know what you mean by that—I work hard all the week, never spending a farthing at the public house on Saturdays, and on Sundays we have a snug, piping hot dinner, and a glass of punch into the bargain.”

“And how do you pass the evening?” asked Connor.

“Oh, very well,” says Lacy; “Susan, perhaps, puts on her cloak, and goes to Nancy Dillon, while her good man and I smoke a pipe quietly together.”

“Do you never go to prayers?” said Mary.

“To be sure I do, now and then,” replied Lacy, “and Susan goes whenever she gets a new riband to her old hat, to make her look decent.  Indeed she went twice, to my certain knowledge, the day that his Honour’s housekeeper gave her the new stuff gown.”

Mary shook her head, and Lacy was displeased.

“May be,” said he, “you think we are not religious, as you call it; but I’ll be bound we’re as good Christians as those that make such a fuss about it.  I learned the ten commandments when I was a boy, and remember them well enough to keep them now.”

“And do you think keeping the commandments in the sort of way you talk of, will bring you to heaven?” said Connor.

p. 4 “Indeed I do,” replied Lacy, “what else should bring me there?”

“And are you sure,” said Connor, “that you keep the commandments, and never break one of them?”

“It’s myself that thinks so,” said Lacy, “and I defy you, or any one else, to say to the contrary.”

“I will show you presently,” said Connor, taking down a neat Bible.

“No thank you,” said Lacy, “I could have enough of that if I liked it; but I am not fond of preaching: it’s poor feeding for those who want bread.”

“Isn’t the Bible said to be the bread of life?” cried Mary.

“It may be so,” said he, “but I can’t live on a book.”

“Ah, neighbour, if you would but learn to look up to God!” said Mary.

“Pho!” replied Lacy, rising, and throwing his spade over his shoulder, “Connor, with all your talk, you are worse off than me—how will you feed those four hungry little ones to-morrow?”

“We don’t fret ourselves much about that,” said Mary, for “He that feedeth the young ravens, has promised that he will not suffer the children of his servants to cry for food in vain.”

“And if they do,” added Connor, “we can fast: the Son of God knew hunger and thirst for many days, and shall we grumble if he lets us feel them for one ?”

Lacy could not think of any answer beyond “good night.”  As he walked home his temper got worse: he wondered why Connor should cant like a preacher; and he thought Mary’s content was all pretence; but as it made her so quiet, he wished his Susan could learn it.

People often bring on a quarrel by seeming to expect one.  When Susan saw him she ran with joyful looks saying, “Oh, Peter!  I’ve got the nicest plan for to-morrow!—But, how sulky you are!  What is the matter?—Where is the tea?  Why, you look as black as that cloud.”

“Aye, wife,” he replied, “I am the cloud, and you are the thunder—there’s neither tea, nor potatoes, nor money to buy them.”

“No money?—Where are your wages?”

“The gentleman hadn’t silver or brass in his company,” said Lacy, “so now begin to scold.”

“There, there,” screamed Susan, “you are always picking a quarrel with me, because you find me so easy p. 5 with you.  No wages! no tea!—and you to be sent home without a penny in your pocket.”

She went on in this way for a long time; then looking at a parcel which lay carefully folded up, on a chair, her voice grew very sad, and she whined out,—“There!  I’ve been working my poor fingers to the bone this live-long day! and I’ve turned my gown from top to bottom, till it looks as good as new; and I was going to ask Nancy Dillon to drink tea, and walk out among the neighbours, and all—but I am an unhappy creature, and you are a wicked, bad man to do so.”  When, just as her voice was lost with crying and scolding, the door opened, and Connor came in.

“I ask pardon,” said he, “for coming in so smart to ye: but I ran all the way, to ask ye to come and dine with us to-morrow—Wilson brought the money, and we shall have a bit of meat for you.”

Susan dried her eyes, unfolded her stuff gown, and smiled.  “Thank you kindly,” said Lacy, “but you have so many of your own.”

“Never mind,” replied Connor—“the more the merrier; come early, and go to prayers with us.”

CHAP. II.

How pleasant is the Sabbath! and how good is God, who not only allows, but demands for the humblest of his creatures, a day of rest—the poor horse who dragged the heavy plough all the week, now crops the grass at his ease, or draws a mouthful of hay from the crib.  The patient ass who drew many a basket of turf to the town, now rambles by the side of the road, and feeds on the thistles in the hedge.  I hope there are no children so cruel as to teaze and torment him.  “God is the Maker of all creatures,” said Michael Connor to his little boys, “and he will punish those who wantonly hurt even the poor ass.”

Peter Lacy came, with his wife, in good time for the morning prayers.  Susan looked very smart, and held up her head; but Mary did not seem a bit less happy than she did.  Mary had no gay stuff gown, but one of plain blue check; with a black bonnet, which looked new because it was carefully kept, and not tossed about p. 6 and dirtied.  She learned from her Bible that pride is hateful to God, and that the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit is what He loves, and fitter for a Christian woman than the plaiting the hair, and putting on of rich apparel.  “Indeed it is melancholy,” she would often say, “to behold a poor body, made from the dust of the earth, and returning to it again, pampered and puffed up, as if it was a great thing in the sight of God; while the immortal soul is left neglected; and, if found unprepared to meet the Judge at the last day, together with the naked, shivering body, will be sentenced to be cast into the lake of eternal fire.”

They soon set out for prayers, and the two eldest boys went with them.

Lacy could not help observing how devoutly Connor and Mary joined in the whole service: he looked and wondered; he could not feel as they did, nor pray like them, but he wished to do so; nor was he disappointed in the end:—God, who sees the heart of man, and knows all his thoughts, will answer the humble prayers of a soul that begins to feel his own sinfulness, and the want of a Saviour; the effect of the Holy Spirit’s influence on those that seek Him.

All this time Susan was looking about her; but though there was not so smart a gown in that place, very few minded the pattern.

In his sermon, the clergyman spoke like a father to his children.  Among other things, he told them in particular, “how sinful and how ignorant they were by nature, and how useless all endeavours of their own to please God must be, unless they come to Him by his Son,” (John xiv. 6.) through whose blood alone they could be cleansed from all sin, and clothed in the wedding garment of the Saviour’s righteousness.—That they must be taught of God to feel the plague of their own hearts, and loathe sin.  That being brought to a sense of their lost state, and to an entire dependence upon the merits of their Saviour, and upon them alone, for pardon, they should, seeking the blessing humbly in God’s appointed way, receive the gift of a new heart; their former inclinations and sinful ways being exchanged for godly desires and holy pursuits, and they should become “new creatures.”  For, “if any man be in Christ, he is a p. 7 new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.” 2 Cor. v. 17.

He spoke also of what followed upon this great change, of the fruits of this conversion from sin unto righteousness, how the true Christian was full of tenderness to his fellow-creatures, “and loved his neighbour as himself.”  He showed that they could not any longer allow themselves to give way to their passions; in particular, he mentioned the evil nature of anger, which Christians must entirely forsake; and that provoking to anger was a thing equally bad.

It was a discourse that went to Lacy’s very heart: he would have given the world to have understood it better; and as for his wife, she, for once, forgot her gown while she listened to the sermon.

Lacy and Susan asked no questions till after dinner, when Connor had very devoutly returned thanks to God for all the good things he sent them.  At last he said, “Connor, did you understand the sermon?”

“Yes, through God’s blessing, I trust I did,” replied Connor.

“Now I listened all through,” said Lacy, “but could make out very little of what he meant, except when he spoke about anger, and such other evil passions,” looking at Susan.

“And of provoking to anger,” said Susan, looking at him.

“But did you not understand what he said about loving one another?” asked Mary.

“Why, yes, I think so,” replied Lacy; “but what did he mean by our coming to Christ to be cleansed and clothed?”

“He meant,” answered Connor, “as the Bible shows, that nothing could wash away our sins but the blood that was shed on the cross for us—and that renouncing all dependence upon our own works, we must take for the garment of salvation, the righteousness of Christ, which alone can make us fit to appear before God.”

“I suppose,” said Susan, “there were some very wicked people there, and the clergyman meant it for them.”

“Aye,” said Connor, “and for the very best people there too;—there are none in the world fit to enter heaven without being so cleansed and so clothed.”

“That is odd!” exclaimed Lacy, “for supposing that you and I, and the two wives, are all sinners, sure the little boys cannot be sinners?”

p. 8 “Oh, yes we are, indeed?” said little William, shaking his head sorrowfully, “Peter and I are bad boys: I told a lie twice; and Peter pulled an apple that father told him not to touch.”

“Poor dears!” said Susan; “and do you think such little trifles will keep you out of heaven?”

“All sin will do so,” said Connor; “a small penknife will destroy life, as well as a great sword; they knew it was wrong, yet they did it, and that was sin.  Little as they are, they already feel the want of pardon for their sin, through the Lord Jesus Christ.”

Lacy felt somewhat alarmed.  “If this be true,” thought he, “what a vile sinner am I!”

He leaned his head on his hand, for some time; then striking the table, he exclaimed, “I shall never understand all this.”

“Good neighbour, it cannot be learned without the grace of God to teach us.”

“How may a body get that grace?” said Lacy.

“By praying for it,” replied Mary; “we should often say, ‘Lord teach us to pray.’  Our Saviour says, ‘Him that cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast out.’  ‘Ask and ye shall receive, that your joy may be full;’ ‘seek and ye shall find, knock and it shall be opened unto you.’”

“And will praying teach me every thing,” said Lacy.

“The Holy Spirit will teach you,” replied Connor, “to understand what you read in the Bible, and hear on the Sabbath.  When we read the Scriptures let our prayer be, ‘Lord, open thou mine eyes, that I may behold wondrous things out of thy law.’”

“Well, if I had time, I would read the Bible,” said Lacy.

“Cannot you read it, as I do, of an evening after work, and on Sundays?”

“No,” said Lacy, “I am too tired at night to bother myself with book learning; and Sunday is the only day I have for making merry.”

Thus does Satan try to smother the first sparks of conviction in our hearts, and make us unwilling to strive for a blessing.

Lacy and Susan thought themselves excellent Christians for having been to prayers; and in the labour of the week they soon forgot the warning voice of the clergyman and of Connor.

p. 9 CHAP. III.

The next Sunday at breakfast, Lacy said, “Will you go to prayers, Susan?”

“Yes,” said Susan, “I think I will.”

“So will I,” replied Lacy, “but don’t it look like rain?”

“To be sure the clouds are blackish,” answered Susan; “but perhaps it may clear up.”

Lacy yawned, stretched himself, lighted his pipe, and fell into a fit of thinking.  An hour after, he said, looking out at the door, “’Tis too late now.”

“That is your fault,” said Susan, “I was willing to go.”

Lacy was about making a sharp reply, but recollecting what the clergyman had said about provoking one another to anger, he held his tongue; and when Susan went out of the room he felt as proud as if he had killed a lion; for nothing is so pleasant as thinking we have been enabled to overcome a bad inclination.  “I think,” said he, “I shall get very good now, after this, by myself.”

Susan now came back with her gown, and hung it before the fire, for the weather had been damp.

“Keep your nasty pipe out of the way,” said she to her husband, “or my gown will be spoiled.”

“What a fuss you make about your gown,” replied he; “it would be well if you thought as much of washing my shirt.”

“No matter,” said she, “I say you shan’t smoke my gown.”

“And I say I’ll do as I like, wife,” replied he.  “Tobacco won’t hurt your gown—look here,” and he was so mischievous as to let some of the ashes fall on it.

Susan cried out, snatched his pipe, broke it, and threw the pieces at him.

This was too much for Lacy’s patience, though he was not often passionate: he seized the gown, and running to the door, tossed it into the mud that lay in the front of the house.

Much altercation here ensued—Lacy ran out of the house.  “Ah!” thought he, “if we had gone to prayers this would not have happened.”  He felt ashamed of having taken such a revenge on his wife, after provoking her as he did; but he was too stubborn to go back and be friends with her.  He walked on towards Connor’s cabin, and as he passed the door he plainly heard the sobs of a woman within.

p. 10 Such a sound was very strange in that happy and quiet place—he stopped at the door, and heard Mary sob out—“I know, I know, he will protect them:—preserve them—but my life—my husband!”  She could say no more, and Lacy entered.

There, on his humble bed, lay poor Connor! death was pictured in his face; his cheeks were pale, his lips blue, his eyes hollow: he looked now on his wife and children, and seemed full of grief, but then he looked up to heaven, and was comforted.

Mary sat beside him: her apron was drenched in her tears; she tried to hide her sorrow and to quiet her sobs, but she could not: her eyes were searching about every where, as if for some comfort; but when she saw the altered face of her husband, she almost went distracted, and could only, like him, look up to God in humble submission.

William sat on his low stool with his little sister on his lap, Peter was crying by his mother’s knee, and the baby was asleep in the cradle.

William was the first who saw Lacy, and trying to speak he burst into sobs and cries.

His father turned slowly his eyes towards him, and saw Lacy; a look of satisfaction appeared on his countenance, and then Mary saw him too.

Her grief broke out again, “Oh, neighbour, neighbour, he is dying!” she exclaimed.  Lacy could not speak a word, but he shook her by the hand, and then leaned over Connor.  “Lacy,” said the poor man, in a weak voice, “you wonder to see me thus—you left me well and hearty lost night, but a carriage was run away with, and the horses went over me; I am dying.”

“Let me go for a doctor,” cried Lacy.

“He has been here—there is no hope.”  Connor spoke these words calmly, but they seemed to cut Mary to the heart.

“No hope, no hope,” she repeated; “he must die.”

“Don’t die, father,” said little Peter, in a piteous voice.  “Oh, father, father, surely you are not going to leave us!” sobbed William; “who will teach us the Bible, or show us the way to heaven any more?”

“I wish I could, O Lord teach me!” exclaimed Lacy, and he groaned.

“God grant that prayer!” cried the pious Connor. p. 11 “I know he hears it, and I trust his Holy Spirit will lead you to Jesus, my friend, and teach you to lead others there.”

“He cannot,” said Lacy, in an agony, “I am too vile, too sinful, too wicked, he cannot.”

“He will,” replied Connor fervently, “if you are now sensible of sin, and feel the need of a Saviour, you will find him; and your dying hour will be as peaceful as mine.”

Lacy was quite overcome: he sat down, covered his face, and wept.  Even Mary spared a look of kindness from her dying husband to the awakened sinner.

The clergyman had been sent for, and now came in: he looked with concern on poor Connor, who forgot his own sufferings, and pointing to Lacy, said, “Comfort him,” then whispered Mary to send for Susan.

The clergyman touched Lacy’s shoulder, and said, “My friend, raise yourself, and behold the instructive scene—the death-bed of a Christian.”

He obeyed, and came near the bed with those who had arrived to visit their dying neighbour; for Connor was loved, or at least respected by all who knew him.

“Sir,” said Connor to the clergyman, “I trust that my sins, which are many and great, are forgiven.”

“The blood of Christ cleanseth from all sin,” replied the clergyman, “only believe, and thou shalt see the glory of God.”

“It is so,” cried Connor, “I feel it, I leave my wife and children; but my Saviour I cannot leave; to him I cling.”

“And he will support you,” replied the clergyman, “through the dark valley of the shadow of death.  This is no late death-bed repentance; you, my brother, sought the Lord and he was found of you: you came to Jesus for help, when health and strength were your own, and he will not leave nor forsake you now in your distress.”

“Yet I cannot help feeling some anxiety,” said Connor, “when I remember that the years I passed in sinful blindness of heart, are far more than the days in which I strove to walk with God.”

“It is the gracious promise of our God,” replied the Clergyman, “to his believing people, that their sins and iniquities he will remember no more.”

Susan now came in, but was too much shocked to speak.  “My dear,” said Connor to Mary, “cherish that poor p. 12 couple, and with God’s help strive to assist them in their way to heaven.”

He was now going apace: they all kneeled down and joined the clergyman in prayers for the dying man.

Connor uttered some faint sounds—Mary bent to hear them; his words were, “I know that my Redeemer liveth,” and they were his last.

The poor widow arose: dreadful was the struggle between the repinings of nature and pious resignation, but the latter prevailed: she raised her clasped hands and said, “The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord!”

Susan looked at her: she recollected her own sinful passion and resentment on her late trifling loss; she condemned herself, she knew that she could never make her own peace with God, and for the first time in her life she felt the want of a Mediator.

The good clergyman pointed to the corpse, and said, “There is a lesson never to be forgotten: he was of the world: he was in darkness, until it pleased God by the light of his Holy Spirit to take away that darkness, and direct him to the only sure refuge, the Lord Jesus Christ.  From that first dawn it has shone more and more unto the perfect day.  He grew in grace, and prayed to be strengthened and confirmed in it.

“For him death had no terrors, but appeared the gate of life: the grave only seemed to him like a dark passage, and he looked beyond it to everlasting light and glory in heaven.

“Who can behold the mild countenance of our departed brother, and not exclaim, ‘Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like his!’”

Oh, Reader, may you thus live—thus die!!!

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