THE GARDEN. 239 



a professor of history — there was none ! I then 

 sent to all the private collections within ten miles, 

 and some much farther, but no such book as a his- 

 tory of Ireland was to be found in any of them. 

 I applied to a quarter in London, where I was sure 

 of success : — any other history was at my service ; 

 but not a line of Irish history had they. Poor as 

 I was, 1 could not endure the stigma to rest on all 

 the English ; so I bought Leland, in three good 

 volumes ; and I positively declare that, of all the 

 English friends who have noticed it in my precious 

 cabinet of Irish bog-yew, not one had read the book. 

 Now, if this be not the devil's doing, to blind our 

 eyes, and harden our hearts against the claims of 

 our dear brethren — whose is it ? Yet there is a 

 work I would rather see than Leland's, in the pos- 

 session of my friends. Christopher Anderson's 

 Historical Sketches of the native Irish, is a gem 

 such as six shillings will not often buy. 



I have rambled from my garden, but not from 

 my point. Ireland is such a spot as I have faith- 

 fully described ; for what I have written is un- 

 adorned fact. Ireland is a garden, where what 

 was originally good, has run to rampant mischief, 

 only bearing abundant token that it needs but to 

 be pruned and trained, to become again most inno- 

 cently lovely. Ireland is a garden, where what is 

 radically bad, has, through our wicked neglect, 

 taken root, and well nigh usurped the soil, to the 



