Tuesday.—It often happens that when peasant girls come into service in a gentleman's family, direct from the wretched hovels in which they have been brought up, in a wild part of the country, they are surprised and perplexed by all they see: the commonest things are new and astonishing to their simple gaze. As the dwellings of the Irish poor are never more than one story high, what excites their perplexity, and often their fears, more than anything else, is, of course, a staircase.

A friend told me she once took a very interesting orphan girl from a cabin, or rather farmhouse, as it was called, which had belonged to a tenant of hers. The poor girl was so terrified at the prospect of being obliged to go up the long winding flight of stairs which led to the attic where she was to sleep, that she crept up on all-fours; and after accomplishing this feat, she remained up there a whole day before she could summon up sufficient courage to encounter the still greater apparent danger of coming down. She at last accomplished the dreaded descent by turning her face from the dizzy height, and creeping down backwards.

I heard to-day an anecdote, which shows how apt we are to be afraid of what is new. A young carpenter came here for employment, from Kilkee, a delightful sea-bathing place on the western coast, abounding in ocean scenery, but where there are no trees—literally none.