'Nugent's town,' said the postillion, 'once a snug place, when my Lady
Clonbrony was at home to whitewash it, and the like.'
As they drove by, some men and women put their heads through the smoke
out of the cabins; pale women with long, black, or yellow locks--men
with countenances and figures bereft of hope and energy.
'Wretched, wretched people!' said Lord Colambre.
'Then it's not their fault neither,' said Larry; 'for my own uncle's
one of them, and as thriving and hard a working man as could be in all
Ireland, he was, AFORE he was tramped under foot, and his heart broke. I
was at his funeral, this time last year; and for it, may the agent's own
heart, if he has any, burn--'
Lord Colambre interrupted this denunciation by touching Larry's
shoulder, and asking some question, which, as Larry did not distinctly
comprehend, he pulled up the reins, and the various noises of the
vehicle stopped suddenly.
I did not hear well, plase your honour.'
'What are those people?' pointing to a man and woman, curious figures,
who had come out of a cabin, the door of which the woman, who came out
last, locked, and carefully hiding the key in the thatch, turned her
back upon the man, and they walked away in different directions: the
woman bending under a huge bundle on her back, covered by a yellow
petticoat turned over her shoulders; from the top of this bundle the
head of an infant appeared; a little boy, almost naked, followed her
with a kettle, and two girls, one of whom could but just walk, held her
hand and clung to her ragged petticoat; forming, altogether, a complete
group of beggars.
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