LIFE IN IRELAND 165 



This, said Brian, will do — I cannot for my soul 

 bear the memory of a man who, blessed with uncommon 

 talents, has prostituted them to the vilest purposes, 

 and lived upon the destruction of his fellow-creatures. 

 It is customary in Ireland to laud the memory of Bob 

 Johnston for his talents, his eccentricities, and his 

 addiction to Whiskey Punch. These are sins that 

 might be forgiven, but eccentricities become very serious 

 evils, when use has made them necessary to a person's 

 daily support ; and the only person whom Bob John- 

 ston ever served in Ireland, was Jack Ketch. I 

 would rather perish by the extremest starvation, than 

 live on the blood of my fellow-creatures. The world 

 is already bad enough, and if the superior orders have 

 really no virtue in their bosoms, in charity they should 

 assume the appearance of it, in order that those below 

 them in rank, fortune, and education, might derive a 

 benefit from what they hold in contempt. If Religion 

 be a fallacy, said Brian, 'tis one of such a very com- 

 fortable nature, that I would not be deprived of its 

 beautiful theory for all that the world can give or take 

 away. Dammee, said he, rising from his grassy seat, 

 I am in future determined to enjoy the world in a 

 virtuous way. 



For Heaven in pity says repent, 

 And bids thee go, and sin no more. 



With this resolution on his lips, he turned up 

 Stewart's Glade^ where there are often more suckles 

 than honeysuckles to be found. The light breeze that 

 swept over Mill Dale, and bent the heads of the prim- 

 rose, cowslip, and hallowed shamrock, lifted also the 



