Muck of all kinds surrounds their dwellings, and yet they seem to thrive, and the shoeless, unwashed, ragged boys and girls you meet up there, have faces and figures you often seek in vain amongst more civilised people and in more comfortable homes. They have a hard time of it. In their dreary cabins wretchedness seems to reign supreme. At the outside, a couple of rooms comprise the whole extent of the building devoted to the human biped, and he is but little better lodged than his cow or pig—that is all. Nevertheless, you can’t get the tenant to abandon his holding, for which he pays to take possession a great deal more than you would think it really worth, the rent of which is often high, and is generally scraped together with much difficulty and after considerable delay. To be behindhand with the rent is no uncommon thing in these parts, and a stranger up yon hills is viewed with considerable suspicion. It can be no good that takes him up there—such is the firm belief of the natives. No power on earth is able to get them to give up their mountain freedom and frugal fare for better living elsewhere. Here, at least, the Irishman is too contented. “He sees his little lot the lot of all; Sees no contiguous palace rear its head To shame the meanness of his humble shed; No costly lords the sumptuous banquet deal To make him loathe his vegetable meal; But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil, Each wish, contracting, fits him to the toil.” As we wend our way, a fine breeze meets us from the distant downs. You can fancy the sportsman may find on the distant heather something that may repay his toil, or the artist something he may love to transfer to his canvas; but you would never guess that in so romantic a spot there was so unpoetic a thing as a flax-spinning mill. On our right runs a little stream, which, ere it reaches its destination in Newry, sets more mills going, considering the distance, than any other in the country. A turn in the road, and we are at Bessbrook Mills. As we descend we see the works in all their extent, and the rising slope beyond, on which is planted the town in which the workmen live. “What an admirable situation!” you exclaim; and truly you are right. No poisonous exhalations load the air; all seems cheerful and healthy. Here you see a picture of factory life without factory abominations. No policeman is required to keep order, for you see no public-house to create disorder. The head of the place is a teetotaller. Most of the leading men in the concern are the same. There is no law to compel the workpeople to be such, but most of them are so, and great is the comfort of the wives and families in consequence, as most people are fully aware of the fact that the worst thing a working-man can do with his money is to spend it in the gin-palace or the public-house.