eward
fortunately understood the native tongue, and quitting the chapel
before the service was over, he fled from the dangerous place.

The present civilisation and industrious habits of the people,
compared with their barbarism thirty years ago, shews that the Irish
character, when properly directed, is as capable of advancement as any
other in the world. There was at that time no road into or out of
Ballyvourney: it was in this respect like the Happy Valley. The passes
are yet in existence, and are fearful to look at, where a gentleman
from Kenmare, on his journeys to Cork, used to bring his chariot,
accompanied by a number of footmen, and unharnessing the horses, let
it down by ropes from the top of the precipice. There is another spot
of the kind on the road from Killarney to Cahersiveen and Valentia,
where on the side of the Hill of Droum, nearly precipitous from the
sea, is the track-mark of the carriage-road, if such it can be called,
where the vehicle used to be supported and dragged by men. A new road
has since been made there: the Atlantic Ocean is so directly beneath,
that a passenger may drop a stone into it as he drives along; while
Droum Hill stands perpendicularly above him. It is a most magnificent
scene; terminating with the ruins of Daniel O'Connell's birthplace.
Visitors to Ireland usually conclude their journey at Killarney; but
if they would continue their route to Caragh Lake, Blackstone, Lady
Headley's improvements, and go on through the Pass of Droum to
Valentia and Cahersiveen, they would discover that Killarney is only
the opening to a scene of grandeur and sublimity.

Mr C---- found Ballyvourney in the inaccessible state I have
described. The people held every year, on Whitsunday, a royal
faction-fight; and for this, preparation was made almost every Sunday
in the year. They fought with deadly weapons, sticks loaded with lead,
and stones. Pensioners, who were accustomed to firearms, were hired
for the occasion; but the weapon chiefly used was a short scythe, and
men may still be found bearing its mark in contracted legs and arms:
one man having Tim Halisy, his mark; another, Paddy Murphy, his mark,
indelibly inscribed on his body. They had little or no agriculture--no
wheeled cart, and scarcely even a spade. A crop of oats was a
curiosity; and when there was such a thing, the only mode of conveying
it to market was on a horse's back. Their agricultural operations were
confined to feeding cat