Mr. and Mrs. Colquhoun of
Ardnagreena. We have been here ourselves for ten days, and are flattered
to think that we have used the time as unconventionally as we could
well have done. We made a literary pilgrimage first, but that is another
story, and I will only say that we had a day in Edgeworthstown and a
drive through Goldsmith's country, where we saw the Deserted Village,
with its mill and brook, the 'church that tops the neighbouring hill';
and even rested under

'The hawthorn bush with seats beneath the shade
For talking age and whispering lovers made.'

There are many parts of Ireland where one could not find a habitable
house to rent, but in this locality they are numerous enough to make it
possible to choose. We had driven over perhaps twenty square miles of
country, with the view of selecting the most delectable spot that could
be found, without going too far from Rosnaree. The chief trouble was
that we always desired every dwelling that we saw. I tell you this with
a view of lessening the shock when I confess that, before we came to the
Old Hall where we are now settled for a month, and which was Salemina's
choice, Francesca and I took two different houses, and lived in them for
seven days, each in solitary splendour, like the Prince of Coolavin. It
was not difficult to agree upon the district, we were of one mind there:
the moment that we passed the town and drove along the flowery way that
leads to Devorgilla, we knew that it was the road of destiny.

The whitethorn is very late this year, and we found ourselves in the
full glory of it. It is beautiful in all its stages, from the time when
it first opens its buds, to the season when 'every spray is white with
may, and blooms the eglantine.' There is no hint of green leaf visible
then, and every tree is 'as white as snow of one night.' This is
the Gaelic comparison, and the first snow seems especially white and
dazzling, I suppose, when one sees it in the morning where were green
fields the night before. The sloe, which is the blackthorn, comes
still earlier and has fewer leaves. That is the tree of the old English
song:--

'From the white-blossomed sloe
My dear Chloe requested
A sprig her fair breast to adorn.
"No, by Heav'ns!" I exclaimed, "may I perish,
If ever I plant in that bosom a thorn!"'

And it is not only trees, but hedges and bushes and groves of hawthorn,
for a white thorn bush is seldom if eve