f work,
and live on the least possible quantity of food. But, although these
operations cost much waste of blood, the roads opened no new and
fruitful sources of industry in these mountain valleys, only frequented
by the footsteps of the sportsman, or scanned by the eye of the
votaries of pleasure. The house where I called was intended for my
guide. However, I found my claim for hospitality at once recognised on
pronouncing the password of my host by the sea. The cabin--it was
literally such--was in the most filthy state. The dung of the cattle had
not been removed for days, and half-naked children squatted in it as
joyously as if they rolled on richest carpets. The housewife merely
replied to my question in the affirmative. But she immediately
proceeded, with the help of two little girls, to remove the filth. I was
so fatigued and hungry that I could willingly postpone the process of
cleaning for the sake of providing any sort of food. I was doomed to
disappointment. No appearance of supper interrupted the busy operation,
until the dung was removed, and the floor drained. I retired, and
endeavoured to ascend the eastern hill, to a point where I could catch a
glimpse of the setting sun.

On my return I found the owner of the house, a man of giant frame and
noble features. His dress bespoke a taste or pursuit incompatible with
the wild mountain destiny stamped upon the external aspect of his home
and family. His wife spoke a few words in Irish, explaining my presence,
to which he answered that I was welcome. Supper was at length prepared,
when he drew from a basket a few of the finest trout I ever saw. He
cleaned and fried them with his own hands, as if the operation were
above the capacity of his wife, who performed the other culinary duties
with silent assiduity. It might be owing to hunger, it might be owing to
the actual superiority of the fish, or it might be owing to the mode of
cooking, but it seemed to me as if I never tasted anything of equal
flavour to those trout. The entertainment was ended with some boiled new
milk, slightly curdled, a delicacy little known in the circle of
fashion, but never surpassed either in that or any other. Some fresh hay
was procured and strewn on an article of furniture common in the houses
of the Kerry peasantry, called a "settle." It is a sort of a rude sofa,
made of common deal timber. On this "settle" my host prepared my bed of
new-mown hay, barricaded with old chairs and a tabl