As We Passed Out Of This Black Valley We Entered A Kind Of Glen, And The
Guard, A Man In
A laced hat and scarlet coat, pointed to the left, and
said, "There is a pretty place." It was a
Beautiful park along a
hill-side, groves and lawns, a broad domain, jealously inclosed by a thick
and high wall, beyond which we had, through the trees, a glimpse of a
stately mansion. Our guard was a genuine Irishman, strongly resembling the
late actor Power in physiognomy, with the very brogue which Power
sometimes gave to his personages. He was a man of pithy speech,
communicative, and acquainted apparently with every body, of every class,
whom we passed on the road. Besides him we had for fellow-passengers three
very intelligent Irishmen, on their way to Dublin. One of them was a tall,
handsome gentleman, with dark hair and hazel eyes, and a rich South-Irish
brogue. He was fond of his joke, but next to him sat a graver personage,
in spectacles, equally tall, with fair hair and light-blue eyes, speaking
with a decided Scotch accent. By my side was a square-built, fresh-colored
personage, who had travelled in America, and whose accent was almost
English. I thought I could not be mistaken in supposing them to be samples
of the three different races by which Ireland is peopled.
We now entered a fertile district, meadows heavy with grass, in which the
haymakers were at work, and fields of wheat and barley as fine as I had
ever seen, but the habitations of the peasantry had the same wretched
look, and their inmates the same appearance of poverty.
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