There is scarcely any cabaret in the remote parts of Ireland, over whose door is exhibited the usual advertisement of ‘good entertainment for man and beast,’ where a tolerable breakfast may not be procured; the abundance and freshness of the milk, butter, and eggs usually compensating for the indifferent quality of that far-fetched and / vivifying herb, which the widow Gaffney assured her guests was ‘iliganttay from Cork,’ as they seated themselves at her breakfast table, after the refreshing repose of the night. Luckily they were just then in a temper of mind to take much upon faith, and to be pleased on very scanty premises. That, which under the influence of exhaustion and evening gloom, was deemed misadventure, to the renovated spirits of morning and sunshine was amusing incident merely, and stimulating variety. There was a novelty, a romantic singularity in their actual position, which lent it a peculiar charm (at least, to the younger traveller, to whom it was evident that whatever was new was good), while it was obvious to both, that even the wildest parts of Ireland afforded security to the stranger’ wandering: for it is only the local, official oppressor who has any thing to fear from an ignorant and suffering population; a po-/pulation, which, strangers to the protection of the laws, fly for redress to that force, by which alone they and their ancestors have been governed for centuries.

The travellers left the inn of Lis-na-sleugh, followed by the blessings of its inhabitants, excited by their liberality.