Such an observation is sure to offend Biddy's propriety, and she goes off in a "huff," muttering that if they didn't go "_look_ afther them, they'd _skulk_ afther them; it's the London Blacks does the mischief, and the mistress _ought_ to know that herself. English laundresses indeed! they haven't power in their elbow to wash white." Biddy says all this, and more, for she is a stickler for the honour of her country, and wonders that I should prefer _any_ thing English to _every_ thing Irish. But the fact remains the same. The actual labour necessary at the wash-tub is far better performed by the Irish than the English; but the order, neatness, and exactness required in "the getting up," is better accomplished by the English than the Irish. This is perfectly consistent with the national character of both countries. Biddy Mahony is without exception the most useful person I know, and _she_ knows it also; and yet it never makes her presuming. It is not only as a washerwoman that her talent shines forth: she gets through as much hard work as two women, though, as she says herself, "the mistress always finds fault with her _finishing touches_." There she stands, a fine-looking woman still, though not young; her large mouth ever ready with its smile; her features expressive of shrewd good humour; and her keen grey eyes alive and about, not resting for a moment, and withal cunning, if not keen; the borders of her cap are twice as deep as they need be, and flap untidily about her face; she wears a coloured handkerchief inside a dark blue spotted cotton gown, which wraps loosely in front, where it is confined by the string of her apron; her hands and wrists have a half-boiled appearance, which it is painful to look at--not that she uses as much soda as an English laundress, but she does not spare her personal exertions, and rubs most unmercifully. One bitter frosty day last winter, I saw Biddy standing near the laundry window, stitching away with great industry. "What are you doing, Biddy?" "Oh, never heed me, ma'am, honey." "Why, Biddy, what a state your left wrist is in!--it is positively bleeding; you have rubbed all the skin off." "And ain't I going to put a skin on it?" she said, smiling through the tears which positive pain had drawn from her eyes, in spite of her efforts to conceal them, and showing me a double piece of wash leather which she was sewing together so as to cover the torn flesh. Now, was not _that_ heroism? But Biddy _is_ a heroine, without knowing it.