the old way, and in no other. On this occasion,
there appeared to be very great danger that
the firm would be obliged to close their
manufactory. This, though it would have thrown
several hundreds of persons out of bread,
would have been a smaller evil than allowing
the business to perish under the ignorant
dictation of a small proportion of the
workpeople; but it would have been a
wide-spreading misfortune—how serious can hardly
be fully understood but by those who have
seen that factory as it is at this day, when
there is but one mind among all who are
busy within its walls.

It will have been observed that none of the
conflicts, during all this long course of years,
had been about wages, or hours of working.
There had been no possible ground for it; for
the firm had never been in combination with
other employers against the men; although
the men had been in combination with others
against the introduction of English improvements.
The practice of the firm had always
been to pay liberal wages, in order to secure
the best work. They hired the labour which
suited them,—which was always of the highest
order that could be obtained. If the men
were satisfied, they supported them against
all encroachment and injury. If the men
were not satisfied, they let them go in all
good will, and, if it was possible, helped them
to settle themselves more to their minds.
There was little of this parting, however; for
the best men knew when they were well off.
They were maintained in sickness, pensioned
after long service, watched over with vigilant
good-will; and wise men were in no hurry to
throw away friends who would do this.

The time came when the advantage of such an
understanding was put to the proof. In times
of distress, the carriage is the first luxury laid
down by those who must economise, and it is
the last thing to be purchased by those who
can do without it. We all remember the years
of distress from 1836 to 1843. At that time the
younger of the two brothers was alone in the
business,—the father having died long before,
and the elder brother being at that time the
member for Dublin, with O'Connell for his
colleague. It had long been foreseen that
there must be some decline in the business
from the increase of railroads. To this
was added the seven years' distress. Mr.
Hutton stood between his men and utter ruin
as long as possible. His large capital enabled
him to allow his stock to accumulate: but the
time came, towards the close of 1842, when he
was compelled, in order to keep on his men,
to reduce their work and wages slightly.
There were persons who endeavoured to
make mischief between him and his people on
this occasion; but he easily made himself
understood by giving his reasons, and the
facts of the case. After that came the famine,
and with it, of course, a prodigious falling off
of business. The Irish gentry could not buy
carriages while the people were starving, and
the rates were heavier than many could pay.
And when affairs began to come round, and
there seemed to be a prospect of better days,
a terrible accident happened. His family
being absent, Mr. Hutton was sleeping in
town, when a servant rushed into his room in
the middle of the night, crying out, "O, sir!
the factory is on fire! "He was on the spot
instantly, in time to save the Lord Mayor's grand
carriages, which were wanted the next day,
and which were worth many hundred pounds.
The timber-yard was safe, happily; a circumstance
of great importance, as it takes some
years to season the wood properly. But the
loss was very great—many thousands of
pounds over and above the insurance. It was
a melancholy sight to the gazing crowd, to
see the carriages brought out—some of them
on fire inside, and others cracking and warping,
and to know how many more were
destroyed. And there was the fear that
Mr. Hutton would now retire. He was rich;
his brother had retired; and he might be
supposed to have had enough of it, considering
what the last few years must have been.
Happily, he has not retired. He has rebuilt
his factory, and very nearly brought everything
round to its former state of order; and,
as there are sons in the business, it may be
hoped that the establishment may continue to
be the blessing to Dublin that it has been for
nearly three-quarters of a century.

The timber-yard is a picturesque spectacle,
of itself. It is a sort of field, attached to
the property when Summerhill was ''out
of town." The wood is of various kinds.
Every wheel is made of three sorts—the
spokes of oak, the nave of elm, and the
rim of ash. Beech is used for some
purposes, but it does not wear so well as ash.
The panels are made of mahogany; and some
of the upper parts, which are least subject
to strain, are of pine, accurately covered
with leather. Some of the bent and
finely-curved pieces, which have to bear a great
strain, and on which the beauty of the carriage
much depends, are of witch hazel elm. The
wood is bent by steam—the stocks actually
boiled, to make them flexible. For all this,
the wood can hardly be too old: and a great
capital is always locked up in that timber-yard.

The great show-place of the establishment
is, of course, the department where the
finished carriages are kept. The variety is quite
marvellous to a spectator who, not being worth
a carriage of any sort, has never given any
particular attention to the diversity out of
which a purchaser may choose. But, after
all, one may see finished carriages abundantly
in the streets, while it is a novelty to, see their
skeletons and their separate parts. So we
rushed gladly into the upper rooms, which
look like an hospital for carriages.

Bodies lay on the ground, bare of covering
and of lining, without door or window; every
stock and frame and panel staring one in the