In my travelling I came to a place called Passage. It is a little town where one crosses the river Suir below Waterford, and there I visited the new Geneva. It is a large caserne<> which was built by the Genevese to whom the Government had given shelter and protection. In one of the perpetual revolutions of their country some artisans had been so disgusted with the new administration that they quitted the Republic and came to establish themselves near Waterford, where they had obtained permission to build a town, the Government assisting in the expense. Afterwards they asked for privileges which would have placed them in nearly the same position in which they were on the Continent. They were perhaps rather turbulent friends of their benefactors in Ireland, but, on the other hand, their industry might have been of great use to the country. While the question of these privileges was being discussed, they learned that a new revolution at Geneva had placed their friends in position of power, and immediately they left their new town and hurried back.

            The Government endeavoured to make some use of the buildings they had left behind them, and turned these into a caserne, whose isolated situation must make it rather a disagreeable one for the officers.

            Moving farther south I stopped at Tramore, which is one of the places in Ireland most frequented by the idle folk who assemble by the sea for bathing. There, at the time, was a very numerous company, and charming ease and abandon. The sand is excellent for bathing. To vessels, however, which have the misfortune to be thrown on it, it is very different—they are inevitably lost.

            At a short distance, a little stream which flows into the sea opens a passage for the waves to the interior of estates where the salt water covers, at high tide, three or four thousand acres of good ground. I am convinced that £2000 sterling, well used, would be sufficient for the construction of a dyke or lock or water-trap, which would save for agriculture the whole of this vast area.

            At last I arrived at Waterford, fairly tired with my long walk. I have already made some observations about this town, and I can only repeat what I have already said on the subject of ship-building yards and sheds on the quays; and, what may seem singular, this is the only thing in connection with the municipal administration here about which it is possible to say anything by way of fault-finding, for the police seem to be, here, infinitely better than in most other towns in this country. There seems to be in this town a care for the public weal which 1 have not found elsewhere. The markets are well supplied, and beggars and tramps were not allowed to show themselves in the streets long before the arrival of Count Rumford, for whom I had the pleasure to be taken when I visited the House of Industry. I was really astonished to find that everybody was alert to please me, running here and there, sweeping and polishing. I allowed them to go on and gave them great praise for their activity, but when, later, the caretaker, having conducted me into his private office, and submitted his accounts which I complacently examined, asked at what hour would I desire the Council of Administration to assemble to meet me, and when he told me that the Government had given orders that my directions were to be followed, it seemed to me desirable to ask to see this order, and when I saw it I found it was for Count Rumford.<9>

            I am sure he would have been as satisfied as I was with the order which reigned in the hospital, which is maintained by subscription and, in part, by a small endowment. There are quarters for the weak-minded, and this is a matter of great importance, for one of the most painful spectacles to be seen in nearly all the principal towns in Ireland is the number of weak-minded people in the streets. The famous Dean Swift was the first who built at his own charge a house in Dublin for these stricken ones. It would almost seem that his action indicated a sort of presentiment, for in his old age he was unfortunate enough to lose his reason, and came to be sheltered and cared for in the house which he himself had built.

            The spirit of industry and commerce seems to me to be more active at Waterford than in any other Irish town, more active even than at Cork, although the size of the town is much less.

            The Mayor of Waterford has the right to have carried before him a sword, even in presence of the Viceroy. The royal patents accorded to the town dispense with the necessity for laying it at the Viceroy's feet, and reserve this privilege to the Mayor alone.

            I was introduced one day, by a lady of my acquaintance, to a rather grand assembly. The gentlemen were still at table drinking, and I was at first charmed, and afterwards much embarrassed, to find myself the only man in a circle of fifty pretty ladies, of whom I did not know a single one except the lady who introduced me. Up to that time I had always admired the role of Grand Seigneur, but that is all past and done with. True, if there had been a handkerchief to drop, I might have felt otherwise, but here not being able, unfortunately, to get a single response other than 'yes 'or 'no 'to a question, I was glad, at last, to be seated at a whist table, at which I was rather fortunate, for I won twelve or fifteen games. Next day another lady was kind enough to introduce me to another assembly, but this time they were the grandmamas of society, with rich mantles of black velvet, toothless, deaf, blind and grumbling. They made me play; I lost, and decamped as quickly as possible.

            The same evening, during the act of a comedy in the theatre, I was a witness of one of those scenes which are exhibited too often in the towns of Great Britain. The public demanded the air of 'God Save the King,' and, according to custom, obliged all the actors who had appeared in the piece to present themselves and sing in chorus. Shouts of 'Off with the hats' were directed with singular fury against those who had forgotten to uncover. A good creature who had been so much interested in the play that he had fallen asleep was unmoved by the cries until a soldier came and gave him a sound blow on the side of the head, at the same time pulling his hat off and throwing it into the pit. The poor devil, who was perhaps in the middle of a beautiful dream, was much surprised to be awakened in this fashion, and commenced to howl in a frightful manner to the inexpressible joy of the pit and stalls.

            I must admit that this act of violence seemed to be too much like what I have seen on the Continent to allow me to laugh at it. Why should politics be mixed up with public amusements? And in this case, after having had, already, this favourite air, which I admire as much as anybody, why should the scenes be interrupted and the theatrical illusion entirely destroyed in forcing all the actors of a piece to appear at once and in the costumes proper to the roles of the play? If this expression of opinion should displease anyone, I shall be sorry; it is far from my intention. I agree that, when one is in a public place, one must conform to the general taste or custom. I would indeed look upon it as an act of folly not to conform. All the same, if the public taste or custom was in favour of peace and quietness it would please me much better.

            I had two letters from Mr. Burton Conyngham addressed to persons in the neighbourhood of this town. I thought it my duty to write to the Marquis of Waterford, telling him that I had a letter for him, given me by his late respected friend, and I desired to know when I could have the honour to present it. The Marquis replied, politely, that he would expect me two or three days later to breakfast. I thanked him for his politeness, and said that my manner of travelling did not permit me to make a journey of ten or twelve Irish miles before breakfast, and that I would do myself the pleasure of seeing him during the day. In the interval I presented my two letters to Mr. Cornelius Bolton and with him I passed some time very agreeably. It is only rarely that I make any mention of my experiences with the different persons to whom I have been introduced, and then only when I think the narration may be useful, and have the effect of encouraging the good. In this case I report the fact simply.

            Mr. Cornelius Bolton lives a very retired life in the country, and has used a considerable part of his fortune to build a fairly large village, in which he has established weaving and other industries. The success which has attended his efforts makes it possible to predict that his charges will be repaid, and the industries will be, not only of public benefit, but a profit to him who established them from purely humane motives.

            I returned to the town by the river, the banks of which are well cultivated and very romantic, and I started to walk to Curraghmore, where I arrived tired and breathless about four o'clock. I sent in my letter to the Marquis of Waterford, and, having been received by him very civilly, I asked permission after a few minutes' conversation to retire in order to dress. It was then explained to me that, while dinner would be willingly given, it would not be possible to give me a bed. That embarrassed me a little, as I had not the slightest notion where I could pass the night, but in the end I left the matter to the care of Providence, as is my usual custom.

            The Marquis made me sit near him and treated me with singular politeness. He offered me his carriage, in order to conduct me to the inn; his house, he said, was full; he was very sorry, &c. &c. I thanked him for his offer, but declined it, and he then ordered a man to go with me and carry my parcel, which contained nothing other than the clothes which I carry with me. His son even offered me, in parting, another commodity which I absolutely refused, saying that I should be very sorry indeed to be a charge to the friends of the late Mr. Burton Conyngham. After having plunged through the mud in pumps and white silk stockings for two or three miles, I arrived at the inn at about half-past ten o'clock. I knocked and asked for a bed, and was told, rudely, by an ugly looking domestic that I could not have one. I snatched my package from the hands of my lord's servant, saying to report to his master that I had been refused a bed at his inn, and I started off at once at high speed. At the name of the Marquis everybody seemed to be turned upside down. They ran after me, begging me to return. 'I would rather pass the night in Hell,' I said, and promptly consigned them to the inhabitants of that place.

            Behind a sheltered wall I put on my travelling clothes, with the intention of walking to Waterford, although it was already eleven o'clock at night. This stoppage gave me time to reflect, and to find that I was already fatigued. I thought it well, in the end, to return to the village and try to get lodging in some other house than the inn. On the way I met the priest of the parish, and explained to him my unfortunate position. My foreign accent determined him, charitably, to leave me to my own devices. This village resembles that to which, according to the fable, Jupiter and Mercury came seeking hospitality and finding their request refused at every door. Like them, in the end, I had to leave the village, and I perceived on the road, in the corner of a ditch, a miserable cabin, the horrible shelter of abjectest poverty. I knocked, and an old woman, another Baucis, clothed in rags, opened the door. I told her that I was a poor traveller who had lost his way, and was tired. She immediately asked me to come in and offered me all that her house afforded—a few potatoes, part of the alms she had received during the day.

            Half a dozen nearly naked children were lying on heaps of straw, pell-mell with a pig, a dog, a cat, two hens, and a duck. Never in my life had I seen such a hideous spectacle. The poor woman told me that her husband was a sailor, that he had gone to sea three years ago, and that she had not heard a word from him since.

            She spread a mat on a box, the only piece of furniture in the house, and invited me to rest on it. The rain was falling in torrents, I knew not where to go, and I accepted the offer and placed myself on this hard bed of misfortune. The animals saluted, with loud cries, the first rays of the sun, and immediately began to hunt through the apartment for something to satisfy their devouring hunger.

            The novelty of the situation was so singular as to amuse me for a moment, and after I felt as if transported to the Ark, and believed myself to be Noah.

            I must have appeared as extraordinary to the poor beasts as they appeared to me. The dog came and smelt me all over, showing his teeth; the pig examined me, grumbling the while; the hens and the duck devoured my powder puff; the children laughed; and I made haste to decamp before I should be myself devoured. I should add that I had a great deal of trouble to get my poor hostess to accept a miserable shilling.

            My intention was at first to go to Carrick-on-Suir and Clonmel, and even to push on to Mallow, these three towns being situated in a most beautiful and fertile country. The last is especially favoured, for, in addition to other attractions, there are mineral waters which are esteemed, and which draw numerous visitors. I intended to return from there to Lismore, but, disgusted with the world, I preferred to bury myself in a wild and rarely visited country. After two hours' walk I felt that I needed breakfast, and without much ceremony I entered the house of some peasants who appeared to be fairly well off. I said simply that I wished to have something to eat, and would pay whatever was proper. These good folk, I am assured, took me for an escaped French prisoner. They conducted me to a rather dark room and brought me what I wanted with the appearance of mystery. When I had finished, I asked what I owed, but I could not get them, to mention any sum, and therefore I left some silver on the table. I had hardly proceeded a hundred yards when I heard one of the daughters running, and calling to me. She brought the money which I had left on the table, saying that her mother was 'quite affronted.' 'I am very sorry indeed,' I replied, 'it was far from my intention. I am much obliged to your mother, but I hope you will allow me the pleasure of presenting the money to yourself. It will buy a ribbon.' She made a little grimace, dropped a curtsey, put the money in her pocket, and wished me a good journey. After many turns and circuits of a winding way through this poor country I arrived at Kilmacthomas, which is a rather large town, where I dined. And here, too, I discovered that I had left the cabin which sheltered me in the night with some rather unpleasant companions. There was no remedy at hand, and so I made an effort and completed twenty-two Irish miles in the day and arrived in the evening, very tired, at Dungarvan, where the first thing I did was to go and drown in the sea the good friends of Curraghmore who had become attached to my person, and then retiring, I slept until noon the next day, by which time my strength had returned, and with it my ordinary good humour.

            Dungarvan is a little town rather well situated on a large bay, which unfortunately is filled with sand. It is hardly anything beyond a place for sea-bathers. Although I was hardly quite recovered from my long walk of the day before, and the bad night which had preceded it, I thought it better, as I knew no one in the place, to leave in the afternoon. I was able to cover eight or nine miles and reached Cappoquin, which is very prettily situated on the river called the Blackwater. This river crosses the island nearly the whole way from east to west, and in part of its course waters a most beautiful country.

            In the morning I was surprised to see the host of the inn in which I had passed the night, seated tranquilly in an apothecary's shop, which was on the ground floor of the same building.

            'You are an apothecary,' I said.

            'Yes, sir, at your service.'

            'D—n your service. I am not surprised if you have poisoned me. If I had known yesterday I would rather have been d——d than enter your house.'

            I give this as an example among a thousand. What an appetising idea to find an innkeeper an apothecary! The cuisine of an apothecary!...

            I came to Lismore on the Blackwater. Its old castle covered with ivy, and situated on an eminence upon the river, is a very striking sight. This is one of the most agreeably situated towns in Ireland; it is surrounded by woods and charming walks, but it is almost entirely in a state of ruin at present. It seems that there were here before the Reformation various colleges and seminaries. These no longer exist, only the great Cathedral Church remains. The Bishop, who is also Bishop of Waterford, the Dean, and two or three other ecclesiastics of the English Church have nothing else to do than lift the income from the estates which are set aside for their maintenance.

            The Duke of Devonshire, to whom the castle belongs, and who has, in this neighbourhood, an estate which may be worth twelve to fifteen thousand pounds sterling per annum, has just built at his own charge a large inn and a superb bridge of a single arch, in order to make the inhabitants accept, patiently, his absenteeism, and keep them from grumbling too much about sending their rents. The arch is really magnificent. It rises about twenty feet above the level of the river and is about one hundred feet wide. At the risk of tumbling into the water I went below, and crept along a string course giving a foothold only of two or three inches. I wanted to hear the echo which will, very distinctly, repeat a word of one syllable seven times, and for a good quarter of an hour I tested it with 'What, What, What' to my great satisfaction. There was a man standing near who examined me with as much attention as I had given to the scrutiny of the bridge, and doubtless I appeared to him as a very strange being. To put him out of doubt I addressed him in broad Scotch. 'That's a muckle braw brig, mon,' I said. 'Yes, Mr. Scot,' he replied. 'Have you got such a one in your country?'

            Here I was received by Dr. Power, at whose house I was very glad to rest. On Sunday morning I attended the Catholic Church and could hardly find room to stand, both church and cemetery round it being full of people. When the service was over I went to the Protestant Church, where I was able to seat myself at my ease in one of the Canon stalls. They have preserved in the Irish cathedrals the stalls of the Canons, with the titles of their benefices, although there are no dignitaries other than the Dean. I directed my course now to Castlelyons, and in the middle of the way, finding myself thirsty and seeing no inn, I asked my way of an old man—an old soldier—who was standing on a terrace near his house, and at the same time I told him my needs. 'Come in, young man,' he said, 'you shall have a good drink,' and a good drink I had. The castle of Castlelyons was a large square building which was burnt about thirty years ago. It had 365 windows, and was then the principal residence of Lord Barrymore. There does not seem to be the least industry or manufacture in the little town—everything languishes and has a miserable air. Rathcormac is a little better, because it is on the main road from Dublin to Cork. The nearer one approaches to the latter town, the more the country takes on a neglected look. I was able to see it at my ease rather more than usual, having been offered a seat on a carriage by the conductor, who wanted to have the pleasure of talking to someone. I arrived at Cork, the dullest and dirtiest town which can be imagined. The people met with are yawning, and one is stopped every minute by funerals, or hideous troops of beggars, or pigs which run the streets in hundreds, and yet this town is one of the richest and most commercial of Europe. The principal merchants are nearly all foreigners, Scotch for the most part, and in the short period of ten years are able sometimes to make large fortunes.

            There is no town where there is so much needful to do to make the place agreeable to a great number of the poor inhabitants. The spirit of commerce and self-interest has laid hold of all branches of the administration. For example, it would be very easy to furnish the town with a public fountain, but the person or company which has the privilege of bringing water in pipes to the houses thinks that by the building of such a fountain there would be lost a number of guinea subscriptions. Therefore, in order that the avidity of an obscure individual should be satisfied, thirty thousand inhabitants must suffer the punishment of Tantalus. I have seen poor people obliged to collect the water falling from the roofs on a rainy day, or to take it even from the stream in the streets. All the time there is perhaps hardly a place which it would be so easy to supply with water as Cork, by reason of the heights which surround it. There is even a spring or fountain about a mile away, which is called Sunday's Well, which appears to me to have sufficient water for the supply of a public fountain in the centre of the town. The water supply for private houses is drawn from the bed of the river a mile above the town. Why should it be so difficult to do for the public what interest has done for the richer classes?

            The dirt of the streets in the middle of the town is shameful, and as if that were not enough, it would seem as if it were wished to hinder the wind and the sun from drying the filth, for the two ends of the street are terminated by prisons, which close the way entirely and prevent the air from circulating.

            The grain market in a town of such considerable size ought naturally to be much frequented. Actually it has been placed on the first floor of a building, and the crowd can only reach it by a stairway two or three feet wide, exposed to all weathers; and to make matters worse, the steps are so much worn that they are slippery and dangerous. One would imagine that there should be nobody allowed on this stairway excepting those who come to or go from the market; but the most disgusting beggars have taken possession of the wall-side and assail the passers-by with their cries, while presenting a porringer or bag in which they are nearly obliged to throw a handful of meal. I have seen a poor woman fall the whole length of the stairs, upsetting nearly everyone on them, and breaking her own arm.

            The meat market is the only one which is as it ought to be. It is new, and it is to be hoped that the magistrates will, in the end, think of the other places where the public must congregate.

            Although the people are very poor, nothing or no one can persuade the mothers to send their children to the poorhouse or almshouse. They are afraid that they would be sent away to other places—a thing which formerly did happen, but a less cruel system is observed now. The mothers wish that their children should not be brought up in the Protestant religion, which is professed in these establishments. A frequent sight is one of these poor unfortunates with two children on her back and another in her apron, holding another by the hand, and beseeching for the cold charity of the passers-by, who being accustomed to such sights generally turn away their eyes. The poor woman, however, also accustomed to such indifference, consoles herself by smoking a black pipe, so short that the fire almost seems to be in her mouth.

            The rich people accuse the poor of being content to live in dirt and to sleep with their cattle. They like it no better than their rich brethren and sisters; necessity, cruel necessity, is the reason for their manner of life. Their misery is such that they become indifferent to decencies. Let them be furnished with the means of changing this life. Let them be put in a position to cultivate the decencies, and know some of the comforts of life, and it will be seen how unjust are the accusations which have been made.

            The peasant is idle here; but of what use would activity be to him? The price of his day's work hardly suffices to maintain him and his family. Costs of various food commodities have been multiplied by three, and yet the price of labour remains the same. Over nearly the whole of Ireland the labourer earns only sixpence a day; his wife and his children are hopeless about doing anything in a country where there are no manufactures. What can, then, such an unfortunate family do? The sixpence suffices only to furnish potatoes and water. Should the father fall sick or die, the poor mother is obliged to quit the country with her children and wander, begging a horrible subsistence. Cursed be the cruel man who first dared to make game of the misery of his fellow. It is one of the shocking artifices of the avaricious, for immediately when we have come to laugh at the ills of others, we feel ourselves freed from any necessity to help them.

            I visited Cobh which is the port of Cork, ten or twelve miles lower down at the mouth of the river—it is one of the prettiest bays and one of the safest in Europe. There I was well and kindly received by the brave General Vallencey, to whom I presented the last letter I possessed of Mr. Burton Conyngham. The researches of the General in Irish antiquities are known through the whole literary world; perhaps he has pushed a little too far his enthusiasm for the Irish language, in which (although an Englishman) he has made surprising progress. He asserts, or pretends to believe, that it is as old as the world, and is perhaps the same which Adam and Eve made use of in the Garden of Eden, the general mother of all languages of the universe from the Huron to the Chinese. He quotes in his grammar singular examples of its agreement with about thirty living languages in all parts of the world.

            It is certain that all the nations of Europe, the greater part of those of Asia and even of Africa, have had origin in the country from whence came the Irish. It may be that the isolated situation of these people has facilitated the preservation in its purity of the ancient language of their country of origin.<10>

            General Vallencey has travelled over Ireland for fifteen years, and has made surveys for maps of the different counties; The Government in the end, as a reward for his labours, has given him the post which he occupies at the moment, that of Commandant of the Port of Cobh, which is now so strongly fortified that there is no danger that any hostile vessel can enter. It cannot be denied that he is a man of value to the State in more than one way, seeing that he has twelve children of a first marriage, ten of a second, and twenty-one of a third. There are very few men who have done their duty so well.

            I presented my respects to Lady Colthurst, an amiable widow, and much too pretty to remain one for long. The General, to whom I showed the letters in my possession, planned my course towards the north, making it unnecessary for me to return immediately to Cork.

            I walked the whole length of the island of Cobh, and, fatigued, I sat myself down to rest in a graveyard, amusing myself by reading the epitaphs. I had often heard of Irish 'bulls,' but had not been fortunate in finding one, and there I found on a tomb, on which, after the names of the family, I read with pleasure, 'Lord, have mercy on the souls here interred.' And so, I said to myself, these good folk have buried under this stone both soul and body. Over nearly the whole of Ireland, but more particularly in the south, I find a peculiar manner of expression which, as far as I can judge, comes from a mixture of the two languages, and this manner accounts for the 'bull 'or stupidity. The mistakes are not any greater than those made by a person speaking a language which is not his own. Here they commonly call the fosse dyke, the name which is given to the wall in England; and here they call the wall ditch, which is the name there given to the fosse.

            Passing Inchiquin, the spot from which one has the finest view of the bay, I came to Castlemary, belonging to Lord Longueville, and saw in his park a Druid's altar. This was a large one, twenty or thirty feet long by about fifteen wide, supported on three large stones. One is astonished in reflecting on the power or apparatus that was necessary to lift such weights. These great stones prove that the people who placed them knew something of mechanical science, and consequently must have attained a high degree of civilisation. As to the use to which they put these stones there are doubts. Some say that the Druids offered on them human sacrifices, which may be true, but it is perhaps enough to say that they would serve on all occasions when the priests judged it necessary to expose any object to the view of the people. From here I went to Cloyne, and there attended a service of benediction which the Bishop bestowed on his clergy on the Sunday after the service. Near the cathedral is one of those round towers of which I have spoken. It is higher and bigger than the ordinary type. The peasants of the neighbourhood are persuaded that it was built by the devil in a single night, and that he brought the stones for it from a far country. I saw no difference between the stones of the tower and those at hand. All I can say is that if the devil built it, the devil is a good mason.

            Cloyne is one of the principal bishoprics in Ireland in point of income. The episcopal town, however, is a little place, but rather larger than that of Ferns. Following the crowd of peasants going to mass, I took the road to Castlemartyr, and, at some distance from this pretty little town, I met a man of very respectable appearance riding on horseback and accompanied by a lady. I had a shrewd guess as to who this should be, and, by inquiring from a servant, I found that I was correct in supposing the gentleman to be Lord Shannon. I asked the domestic to say that a foreigner who had a letter for his lordship desired to speak with him. My letter was delivered on the king's highway, and, after it was read, his lordship asked me to continue my road to his house, where he would join me soon.

            Castlemartyr is one of the most beautiful and one of the best cared-for places, not merely in Ireland, but, perhaps, in Europe. The garden, which Lady Shannon finds pleasure in cultivating, is a charming retreat where flowers of every species are arranged with singular skill. I spent five or six days here, and, on leaving, Lord Shannon was good enough to give me an extremely flattering general letter of recommendation. It was addressed only to his friends, but I have since shown it, practically, to everybody, and the manner in which it has been received is a testimony to the esteem in which his lordship is held by the public. Returning towards Cork I stopped at Midleton to see a large cloth manufactory. It is an entirely new manufacture in this part of Ireland, and has had a great many difficulties to surmount before attaining its present success. It is, however, not altogether as great as might be desired. Several persons in Cork have assured me that if this company could borrow £20,000 sterling for ten years, without interest, it would certainly become a very flourishing industry; but who is going to lend £20,000 without interest? Only the Government could do it, and there is a simple way of doing it. This would be to put a heavy tax on whiskey, and to put the resulting revenue in the hands of manufacturers. This would produce two desirable effects at once: it would encourage industry, and arrest the progress of drunkenness.

            I spent some time in the island of Fota with a spoiled child of fortune, Mr. Smith Barry. He has travelled much, is very courteous and reasonable, appears to be well educated, is good natured, and would be happy if he had only £500 a year instead of £25,000; but his riches have so surfeited him and disgusted him with the world that he has almost totally retired from society, and lives a rather melancholy life in his island, which is not the island of Calypso. Calling at the little island of Cobh, I introduced myself to Mr. Silver Oliver, a gentleman who has given hospitality for a long time to an old, exiled French officer, who is treated as one of the house, and with much kindness. Mr. Oliver asserts that he has fulfilled all the duties that society can reasonably require from a man. He has been Member of Parliament two or three times, he has been Privy Councillor, he has been married, he has several children, &c., &c., and consequently he has a right to live according to his fancies, and these are sometimes rather original. I returned to Cork by the river, and had opportunity to observe that the boatmen here are very much of the bantering type we know on the great rivers of France. Necessity obliged me to return to this City of Yawns. This time, however, the people appeared to be animated, and bands of workers marched through the streets shouting. I asked what was the reason for the row, and was told that the apprentice-shoemakers had, by common accord, struck work, in order to force their masters to increase their wages. I followed them and saw them stop at different times before the houses of master-shoemakers, and have some warm exchanges of words with them. At last the magistrates interfered, and one of them at the head of some soldiers promenaded the streets, endeavouring to disperse the discontented apprentices; but these only made fun of him, and arranged matters so cleverly that he was always in the place where they were not. Night, as in England, made the tumult cease and sent everyone home to bed.

            I had a recommendation to the Bishop, who received me very kindly, and this gave me great pleasure, for I think it proves that all animosities between the two religions are at an end. He sent me to the Catholic Bishop, Dr. Moylan, who is an educated man, and much respected in the country.

            On the occasion of I know not what fête the children made a fire of bones (which is a common practice all over Ireland on days of rejoicing), and they amuse themselves by dancing around the fire and even by running over it with their bare feet. This gave me occasion to make some reflections on the etymology of bone fire in England, which term seems to me to come from this fire of bones, rather than from the forced French of bon feu or jeu de joie.

            The climate of Cork is rainy in the extreme. It rains every day in life, and the temperature of the air has perhaps influenced the character of the inhabitants. It would not be incorrect to call this country 'The Land of Whim and Spleen.' There are a great number of people here who are called 'characters,' and who have all sorts of strange whims and crotchets. One will never sit down to table for fear of being suffocated by the odour of the viands, and takes his meals alone in the vestibule; another spends his income on favourite animals, or 'pets,' as they are called; a third, after having enchanted you by a beautiful voice and charming music, finishes up by boxing you. There is one with a red cap who gallops through the streets and enters shops on horseback, when he wants to buy anything. There is one who plays the bagpipes and who is willing to be disinherited from nearly two thousand pounds sterling per annum, rather than give up his pipes, which are at present his sole source of income. There is a man who believes that everybody wishes to poison him. He watches for the entry of any person into a baker's shop, follows him, and when the stranger has bought a loaf he seizes it and runs off with it, believing that the bakers are not anxious to poison anybody but himself. He acts the same way in butchers' shops. Another has constituted himself children's nurse, and washes, rubs, combs, and wipes them. I could mention many other examples of these 'characters,' but have said enough.

            There is no place of shelter for the weak-minded of Cork—it is a hideous spectacle to see them in the streets. For the greater part, it is true, they are quiet, but it is so cruel and humiliating to see human nature degraded that an effort should be made to separate them from society.

            Yet it must be admitted that the city of Cork has recently made great progress in commerce, in increase of houses, and of inhabitants, and, to some degree, in their amelioration. The city stands on several little marshy islands in the middle of the river, and it is from this circumstance that it takes its name, for Cork means 'muddy' in Irish, and it is passably well named. The narrow canals which separate the islands are only filled with water at high tide, and so destroy considerably the salubrity of the air.

            It would seem to be absolutely necessary for the prosperity of the town that the principal magistrates, for a dozen years, should be strong and prudent men, whose judgment would not be narrowed to the dust of their offices, and who would not be so much accustomed to count halfpennies and farthings, or to think of interest at four, five or six per cent. In the whole of Great Britain, the Mayor or Provost is always elected from amongst the merchants and general traders, the inhabitants justly confiding their interests to one who has a commercial career. This arrangement works very well in towns that are much frequented, where the opinion of the merchant is enlightened by that of a large public, and of strangers who may visit the place; but in towns where the merchant can have no ideas other than his own, or where, being a foreigner, his sole aim is to gather as much money as possible, and quit the country afterwards, it must be evident that the embellishments and amelioration of the city, of which he is a principal magistrate for a year, will not interest him very much.

            I believe that what I have said may explain the little progress which Cork has made in the arts and in matters of public welfare and interest. I imagine that if a man of character generally esteemed (Lord Shannon, for instance) would consent, during several years, to clean this Augean stable, he would be actuated by a desire for the public good, instead of by self-interest, and he would not be found to retard the construction of establishments required by the mass of the inhabitants because the revenues of the city might diminish by a few shillings or pounds.

            Since I have extended my remarks on this subject so much, the reader will perhaps want to know what are the ameliorations of which I speak, and what I think the public-spirited Mayor might do. I shall mention a few of the principal, and in a manner most concise. First of all, demolish the two hideous prisons which are at the end of the bridges joining this muddy island with the banks of the river and build new, outside the town, in an airy position. Clean the streets—don't permit the inhabitants to allow their pigs to roam wherever they may seek pasture, and don't let these pigs be seen after their throats have been cut. Build a grain market in a suitable position. Establish public schools and hospitals where the people may be sure that their children are instructed in the religion they wish to follow, and not in that which others wish them to follow. Build an asylum for the insane. Furnish the city with public fountains. Clear the quays of the sheds which disfigure them. Encourage, as far as possible, manufactures of all kinds, and establish a House of Industry, so as to get rid of the beggars which dishonour the streets. Have public works in which every man wanting bread may find the means to earn it, &c.

            I am convinced that if these plans could be carried out during fifty years, Cork would become more important than Dublin itself, on account of the safety and fine situation of its port. The principal exportation is at present of salted meat; beasts are killed in the season by thousands, and the season over, there is nothing to do. I have known a merchant who, from what I am told, kills every year between twenty and twenty-five thousand pigs, which statement gave me occasion to say to him that he was the greatest murderer of hogs I ever knew. This digression is a little long, and may perhaps appear fastidious to some who do not take much interest in Cork, but it is more for the Irish than the foreigner that I write, and I hope that the purity of my motive will be taken as excuse.

            I quitted Cork at last, and took my way to Bandon, where, unfortunately, the Lord of the soil was not at home. Formerly, this town had a reputation for revolutionary zeal. It was said that the inhabitants had decreed that no Catholic could spend a night there. All I can say about the subject is that the nine-tenths of the inhabitants must have been great cowards.

            Lord Bandon is amusing himself by making a pas de côté<11> to the house; that is to say, he has built a new one beside the old. It will not be as good as the first, but it is no matter; the rich should build and demolish, it is good for the country. On leaving the town I was very happy to fall in with a young man who wished to be my travelling companion, since the inhabitants did not speak English, and my knowledge of Irish did nor enable me to do more than express the equivalents of 'How do you do?' and 'Give me.'

            My travelling companion seemed to be a good sort of creature, and after we had tramped ten miles together, he said, 'I am very sorry, Mister, I am very sorry.' 'And what, my good fellow,' said I, 'is the reason for your sorrow? ''Ah, Sir, I am very sorry that I have no money so that I could offer you a drink of whiskey.' I found this manner of making a request rather original, and replied that he need not trouble himself, as I would offer the whiskey to him.

            When he had taken with me a little drop of 'the creature' (which is an amiable name they have given to whiskey), he said to me, 'To show my gratitude and do you a good turn, I will show you a well that heals all diseases.' He led me to the cemetery, and showed me there a stone vessel attached to a tomb. 'This stone,' he said, 'is always full of water, and yet no one ever puts any into it; the water is good for nearly all diseases. I came here from Bandon three weeks ago to get a bottle of it for my mother, who has dropsy, but she is not much better.' 'Don't you see why that is so? 'I said to him. 'The water is dirty, and the holy water basin full of filth; clean it out, and the water will be good.' Together we took handfuls of grass and scraped out the hollow in the stone, and so effectively that we took out, with the dirt, all the water. My friend was very much surprised to see that the vessel did not refill. He thought he saw in this a sign of some great misfortune. 'Let us hurry away,' he said, 'for if the people here knew what we have done they would be ready to kill us.'

            The huts of the poor in this district are really pitiable to see. Sometimes they lay two pieces of wood across the corner of a ditch, build up the third side with earth, and make a sort of roof over all with turf. Such dwellings make it possible to understand the story of a horseman falling from his horse into the middle of a frightened family.

            At last I came to Macroom. At Cork I had got an umbrella addition made to my sword-stick. The form of the shelter was perhaps unusual, as about six or seven inches of the stick projected beyond the open umbrella. It was raining as I entered Macroom, and I noticed that the girls and women were giggling and chuckling as they looked at me, and soon I had such a troop of children at my heels that I could hardly walk. When I saw that I closed my umbrella and immediately they cried, 'Oh, it is nothing, it is an umbrella stick,' and they left me.

            I inquired for the residence of Mr. Henry Hedges, and it was pointed out to me, far away, on a height at the end of a long avenue. On my way up this avenue I was met by Mr. Hedges, and after putting one or two questions to me, he said, 'You are a stranger'; and then, taking my hand, and before he had read the letter which I carried addressed to him, he said, 'All that is in my house is at your service.' This is the real, good, ancient hospitality of Ireland. How pleasant it is when one meets with such cordiality in this perverse world!

            From Mount Hedges there is to be had a most agreeable view over a rich valley, and the river on the banks of which the town of Macroom is situated. One object in the landscape is an old castle, formerly the residence of the rulers of the country. It serves at present as a caserne<8> for the troops in garrison in this town.

            The life of Wandering Jew agreed with me so well that, although I was wet to the skin nearly every day, and often much fatigued, I grew visibly fairer and fatter. If I met with good or ill, I knew how to enjoy the one without becoming desperate over the other. Allowing myself to be guided by a good Providence, I put the whole of the cares and anxieties of this world aside. My whole baggage slung over my shoulder, or in my pocket, I walked, I ran, I searched; nature appeared to me in many guises, new scenes occupied my attention and gave me instruction. Before the Revolution I was the inhabitant of a little corner of the earth; emigration had made me a citizen of the universe; the whole world seemed to belong to me—

All places that the eye of heaven visits
Are to a wise man ports and happy havens.
... Now, no way can I stray
Save back to France, all the world is my way.

            After all it was not difficult to understand why my travels brought me more vigorous health, for the fatigues of the way was not more than moderate. Thanks to the great number of letters of recommendation which had been given to me, I was nearly always certain to find good quarters in the evening. I went, literally, from house to house; from some it was difficult to escape even on the third or fourth day, and if I could have believed some of the things said to me, I might have finished my walk at some of my resting-places. Although to many that would seem to be preferable to tramping the country, I was not a Breton for nothing, and I was determined to pursue, with perseverance, the plan of my journey.

            I came to Dunmanway by the mountains, which are of the wildest, and crossed a large marsh which has been formed in this beautiful valley because the river has no fixed bed. Here and there little islands of fertile earth proved that nothing would be easier than to drain the valley; if they had here a few Dutch frogs it would be soon done.

            I heard loud cries, and soon I perceived a crowd of people assembling on the road. I could not imagine the cause of the noise and the assembly, but drawing nearer I found that it was a funeral. This was the first time I had been witness of that singular custom, the Irish keen. The women cried in chorus one after the other—hu lu hi. They wept freely and tore their hair, throwing themselves down on the bier. They had all the air of being in extreme sorrow, but this was not the case; they believe they owe the duty to every corpse which passes their house to express sorrow in this violent way. When these good women have done what they think enough to satisfy the manes<12> of the dead, they retire and become immediately as happy as they were before. If a neighbour or acquaintance neglected to appear at a funeral without giving good reasons for his absence, his action would be the cause of interminable hatreds in the family.

            This pille-lu or hu lu hi seems to have some connection with the ululatus of the Romans and the funeral cries of ancient peoples. The manner in which it is pronounced has also given me the idea that it may be a representation of the De Profundis which the priests in Catholic countries chant while following the dead to the grave, a ceremony of which the people in Ireland are deprived, but of which, perhaps, they have an unconscious recollection. I imagine it would not be possible, in the middle of the funeral ceremonies of the Catholic religion, to emit such cries without spoiling the pomp and hindering the priests from doing their duty.

            I passed near to one of the ruined forts which are so common in Ireland, and which are commonly attributed to the work of the Danes. I think it possible that the Danes did construct some, but that the greater part were simply the dwellings of chiefs or kings of the country. They are called here gragun re<13> (meaning, I believe, the palace of the king). The inhabitants speaking of them call them rath or liss—I am not versed enough in the language of the country to indicate the difference between these, which may be one simply arising out of position. Thus one may be quite sure that all the towns of which the names begin with Rath or Lis, like Rathdrum or Lismore, had such fortification; or, to put it better, these towns had their beginnings in the enclosure. These forts were all constructed on the same plan—perfectly round with a double fosse, and in all those of any size, when trouble has been taken to excavate, there has been discovered a souterrain of four or five feet high, the roof being formed by long stones. I have gone into several of these and I have always found them perfectly dry, with, commonly, a little spring in the centre. They are all made Z fashion, and have two openings: the one is inside the enclosure, and the other is in the first ditch or fosse. The use of these souterrains has much troubled the antiquarians, who think that they cannot have been used for living spaces, seeing that they are too low and too narrow. It has been supposed that they were shelters for the cattle, and although I have seen one big enough to allow of cows and sheep taking refuge in it from the heat of the day, it is hardly likely that this was their proper use. The dryness of these chambers makes me think that the inhabitants used them as chambers in which to store food, and if the fort were surprised by an enemy they had by the souterrain the means of escape unperceived. I saw by the roadway one of those schools of which the English make such fun, and which are called hedge-schools. Among a peasantry so poor, it is not to be expected to find a fine house used as a school; consequently when it is a house it has usually a miserable roof, the chamber being not more than five feet high. Children and the master will certainly not feel comfortable in such a hut, and, when the weather permits, they establish themselves under a tree, or under a hedge, and the master gives his lesson in the open air. To my mind it is very much pleasanter to give or receive a lesson in the fresh air than in an overcrowded and ill-smelling school; but it is not the custom in England.

            I arrived at last at Dunmanway, where I was welcomed by Mr. Cox. There are few men who have done so much as he for the amelioration of their country, and his work was very necessary in this remote corner of the world. In his village he has encouraged manufactures of all kinds, giving long leases to his workers at a very low rent, and furnishing them with the means of carrying on their work. He has drained bogs, cultivated fields, and planted woods; also, he has almost entirely rebuilt the little town. In time, doubtless, these things, from being expenses, will become sources of profit. Why do so few proprietors understand that it is for their own interest to place their money in the manner indicated here? The manufactures of calico are here the most numerous. They make also certain kinds of linen, and, in spite of Mr. Arthur Young, I am far from believing that one might as well introduce the plague in the south of Ireland as the cultivation of flax.

            There were in this little town two hundred French republican officers, prisoners on parole, and I was glad to have the opportunity to know what kind of people these men might be. At Mr. Cox's house I dined with two or three of them, and found them polite enough. With pleasure I perceived that that ferocious enthusiasm which distinguished the partisans of the Revolution at its commencement no longer possessed them. But I noticed among them a sort of blind and unreasoning fury against the émigrés; they accused them of many things of which I had never thought, and reproached them with having borne arms against France, as if the greater number of émigrés, with the first campaign, had not been obliged to submit themselves to a requisition more despotic than that of Robespierre, the requisition of need, which they could not avoid, like that of France, by hiding themselves in caves. But at last peace... peace.... One day misfortune will unite us all and leave to all parties only the power of weeping over past ills, and the task of repairing in common what division and wrath have destroyed. God grant it! My sole wish is, one day, to see this accomplished. In the meantime the greater part of officers and republican soldiers fight for the republic because they have already done so, and the republic is victorious, and they hate the émigrés without knowing why.

            One who spoke to me about the finances of the republic told me that they were certainly in a bad way; but, he added, Holland, Spain, Italy, Our Holy Father, the Pope, and part of Germany have already been good enough to come to our aid, and we hope that before long England herself will take pity on us and accord us the same grace. These gentlemen joke.

            Mr. Cox is a gentleman greatly respected in the country; his good nature makes him to be beloved by all. I have noticed a rather original trait of this good nature. The minister of the parish came to him and complained that turnips were stolen from his fields every day. 'And from mine also.' said Mr. Cox. 'Then' said the minister, 'let us join forces and prosecute the ill-doers.' 'Oh' said Mr. Cox, 'that would be too severe; but I will tell you what we might do. Let us sow arsenic among the turnips and we shall soon know who is the thief.' 'But,' said the minister, 'we would be the first to suffer ourselves.' 'In that case,' said Mr. Cox, 'it is perhaps better for you to let things alone as I do, and leave these poor folk to the eating of a few miserable turnips without making a noise about it.' The anger of the saintly man at this was small in comparison to the amusement of the servants who heard the discussion.

            The Lords Lieutenant of Ireland, as I believe I have already said, have the right to confer the honour of knighthood on any person; they have done this indeed sometimes as a joke, and not a very good joke in my opinion. The Duke of Rutland, after having well drunk, was so charmed by the music of a certain player of bagpipes that he ordered him to kneel down, and then and there he created him knight by sword and accolade. This man has been called, ever since. Sir Denis.... He continues, however, the practice of his profession of player of bagpipes, and in this capacity accepts engagements to play in houses while a dinner is proceeding. He is really a clever man with his instrument, but I must admit that I am not a lover of bagpipes.

            I have also been told that Lord Townshend, in one of his journeys through Ireland, stopped a night at an inn, where he was surprised and charmed to find an extremely good claret, of which he drank copiously; then he asked his host to drink with him, and finished up by making the innkeeper knight under the name of Sir Thomas. In the morning, according to the story, remembering his folly of the evening before, he called his host and said to him, 'We have been acting the fool after supper last night; you will say no more about it.' 'My lord,' said the good man, 'as far as I am concerned, that is all right, but I must consult my wife.' The wife's answer was 'I never did hope to be a lady, but since Fortune has made me one, I shall be a lady all the days of my life,' and, as a matter of fact, she is called My Lady and her husband is called Sir.

            Crossing a rather wild bit of country I came to Bantry, where I was received by Mr. White in a most hospitable manner. Bantry is a poor little town, situated at the end of a superb bay of the same name, which has been much on the tongue lately on account of the appearance there of the French fleet. The Bay of Bantry must be about forty English miles in length by fifteen or twenty wide; it is at all parts very deep, except in the neighbourhood of the little town, and is everywhere surrounded by a sterile mountainous and rocky country, in which, nevertheless, one may find from time to time some charming little spots. Mr. White was good enough to take me in his boat to the Port of Glengariff, between Bantry and the island of Bear. This is a most ancient little spot. The way is literally sown with rocks, which are covered with plants and shrubs of every species. I went with my host a little way into the country to a small house belonging to him, and found to my surprise a well-wooded and romantic little valley in the middle of these rocky and arid hills. Plant life is here very vigorous. I have seen pretty large oaks and other trees growing in crevasses of rocks hardly large enough to admit a finger; surely they must draw their subsistence from the moisture of the air.

            Between Glengariff and Bere Haven is seen a very high cascade, of nearly perpendicular fall from a mountain which has got the name of the 'Hungry Hill,' and not without reason. The island of Bere, where the French stopped for a few days, is at the mouth of the bay and, although pretty large, has very few inhabitants—it is a mere mass of mountains and rocks. Whiddy is another island not nearly so large but very productive, with some of the best land in the country. At different places I saw the walls of buildings which had been erected in connection with the sardine industry, this little fish having formerly frequented this bay; but it has been said that they ceased to appear after the naval battle here between the French and the English in the time of King William III. At present the fish is never seen here, and it is almost entirely unknown in England or in Ireland, even under its English name of pilchard.

            Cape Clear, the most southern point in Ireland, is only about twenty miles distant from Bantry, but as a visit to it would have necessitated a return over the same ground, I dispensed with the journey. I have never been so near the country of my birth since the day of the fatal emigration. The thought came to me that in one or two days, with a favouring wind, I might go from here, and land on my own property and calm the anguish of my relatives. Could I have believed years ago that ever my compatriots should one day look upon me as their enemy... their enemy! No, never. I could blame them, detest their atrocities, suffer by their follies and blind rage; I shall be a wanderer, miserable, without a stone on which to rest my head, and France will always be France for me. Always to my native land shall my thoughts return until the last day of my life, always my most ardent wishes shall be for her welfare.

            I quitted with great regret the hospitable roof which sheltered me here. It was a sorrow for me to turn my back now on the south and set my face northward, but I had reached the end of the land. I climbed to the top of the high mountain by which is the only approach to Bantry from the west, and which is called 'The Priest's Leap.' The tradition of the good women of the country on this subject is, that a holy priest, coming from Co. Kerry to Bantry to visit a sick person, learnt on the summit of this mountain that the sick one was dying. Fearing to arrive too late to give him his passport for the other world, he knelt down and prayed, and immediately leaped from the summit of the mountain to his destination, a distance of five miles.

            They will show you, near the town, the rock on which he alighted, and on which you will see the print of his knees, of his fingers, and of his nose. Assuredly this is proof positive. Nevertheless, I fear that there are hardened unbelievers in the world who will not believe the story—so perverse is the human heart.

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