as schoolboys, to whom “next half” begins to-morrow—sailors on the eve of a voyage—invalids, expecting a physician, who, they know, will prescribe an unwelcome diet—yea, even as criminals before execution,—amplify their meals, and, from their dreary expectations, educe a keener relish,—so we, awfully anticipating the cuisine of connamara, made a mighty dinner at galway. it was brought to us, moreover, by a dear old waiter, who evidently had a proud delight in feeding us, as though he were some affectionate sparrow, and we his callow young, taking off the covers with a triumphant air, like a conjuror sure of his trick, and pouring out our drogheda ale, with quite as much respect and care as ganymede could have shown for the gods.

“was the salmon caught this morning, waiter?”

“it was, sir. faith, it's not two hours since that fish was walking round his estates, wid his hands in his pockets, never draming what a pretty invitashun he'd have to jine you gintlemen at dinner.”

this was followed by a small saddle of “arran mutton, y'r onner;” and “what can mortals wish for more,” except a soupçon of cheese?

ah, but we felt almost ashamed of being so full and comfortable, when our conversational attendant began to talk to us about the great famine. “that's right, good gintlemen,” he said, “niver forget, when ye've had yer males, to thank the lord as sends them. may ye niver know what it is to crave for food, and may ye niver see what i have seen, here in the town o' galway. i mind the time when i lived yonder” (and he pointed to kilroy's hotel), “and the poor craturs come crawling in from the country with their faces swollen, and grane, and yaller, along of the arbs they'd been ating. we gave them bits and scraps, good gintlemen, and did what we could (the lord be praised!), but they was mostly too far gone out o' life to want more than the priest and pity. i've gone out of a morning, gintlemen,” (his lip quivered as he spoke), “and seen them lying dead in the square, with the green grass in their mouths.” and he turned away, (god bless his kind heart!), to hide the tears, which did him so much honour.

can history or imagination suggest a scene more awfully impressive than that which ireland presented in the times of the great famine? the sorrows of that visitation have been recorded by eloquent, earnest men; but they come home to us with a new and startling influence, when we hear of them upon irish ground. most vividly can we realise the wreck, when he, who hardly swam ashore and escaped, points to the scene of peril; and while the storm-clouds still drift in the far horizon, and the broken timbers float upon the seething wave, describes, with an exactness horrible to himself, that last amazement and despair.

in the beautiful land of the merry-hearted, “all joy was darkened,—the mirth of the land was gone.” in the country of song, and dance, and laughter, there was not heard, wherever that famine came, one note of music, nor one cheerful sound,—only the gasp of dying men, and the mourners' melancholy wail. the green grass of the emerald isle grew over a nation's grave. the crowning plague of egypt was transcended here, for not only in some districts, was there in every house “one dead,” but there were homes in which there was but one living—homes, in which one little child was found, calling upon father, mother, brothers, and sisters, to wake from their last, long sleep,—homes, from which the last survivor fled away, in wild alarm, from those whom living he had loved so well. fathers were seen vainly endeavouring (such was their weakness) to dig a grave for their children, reeling and staggering with the useless spade in their hands. the poor widow, who had left her home to beg a coffin for her last, lost child, fell beneath her burden upon the road and died. 1 the mendicant had now no power to beg the drivers of the public cars went into cottages, and found all dead, or rachel weeping for her children, and praying that die she might. by the seaside, men seeking shell-fish, fell down upon the sands, and, impotent to rise, were drowned. first they began to bury corpses, coffinless, then could not bury them at all.

1 see a most interesting article on the “famine in the south

of ireland,” in fraser's magazine, for april, 1847, p. 499.

of indignities and mutilations, which then befell, i will not, for i cannot, speak.

indeed, it may be asked, wherefore should we repeat at all these sad, heart-rending details? because, the oftener they are had in painful remembrance, the less likely they are to recur in terrible reality; because—

“never did any public misery

rise of itself; god's plagues still grounded are

on common stains of our humanity;

and to the flame which ruineth mankind

man gives the matter, or at least the wind; 1

1 fulke greville, lord brooke.

and because, when we know the cause and the symptoms, we can the more readily prevent and prescribe.

everyone knows, of course, the origin of the irish famine.

“the blight which fell upon the potato produced a deadly famine, because the people had cultivated it so exclusively, that when it failed, millions became as utterly destitute, as if the island were incapable of producing any other species of sustenance.” 2

2 report of census commissioners for ireland.

they, “who are habitually and entirely fed on potatoes, live upon the extreme verge of human subsistence, and when they are deprived of their accustomed food, there is nothing cheaper to which they can resort. they have already reached the lowest point in the descending scale, and here is nothing beyond but starvation or beggary.” 1

the remedy is just as clear,—to induce the peasantry of ireland no longer to depend upon an article of food, which is difficult to procure, cumbrous to convey, possesses so little nourishment that it must be consumed in large quantities, 2 creates a strange, unhealthy distaste for other food, 3 is subject to so many diseases from humidity and frost, and which has wrought such grievous desolation through the length and breadth of the land. 4

1 edinburgh review, no. 175, p. 233.

2 the evidence taken before the poor law commissioners,

previously to the establishment of the new poor law in

ireland, proves that “ten pounds, twelve pounds, and even

fourteen pounds of potatoes are usually consumed by an irish

peasant each day.”—letters on the condition of the people

of ireland, by j. campbell forster, esq., the times'

commissioner.

3 “when this famine was at the worst in connamara, the sea

off the coast there teemed with turbot, to such an extent

that the laziest of fishermen could not help catching them

in thousands; but the common people would not touch them.”—

quarterly review, vol. lxxxi., p. 435.

4 cobbett called the potato, that “root of poverty.”

how that remedy is to be applied, let legislators and landlords tell; meanwhile, my friend, and i, having sorrowfully sipped our pint of sherry, shall essay to cheer ourselves with a mild cigar, and a farewell walk to the claddagh.

the shades of eve were falling fast, as we set forth, and we were just in time to see the last haul of the nets, and the silver salmon lying on the bank. then we revived our spirits by a little conversation with young claddagh, (merry and mischievous urchins), and by a distribution of copper, every halfpenny of which raised such a tumulus of rags as would have kept a paper mill at work for weeks. then—

“the sun set,

and all the land was dark.”