Dublin,
On the 19th of August I went from Clonmel to Cork At first there was a wooded valley, then the monotonous desert valley of the Suire, military barracks in Fermoy, and a handsome approach by the side of the river or bay to Cork. The city is more bustling, more purely Irish, than Dublin; the hills to the sea, and toward the interior of the country, ornamented in a most diversified and pleasing manner with country houses;
On the 20th I went to Killarney, and hastened to Ross Castle, in order to enjoy the prospect of the picturesque mountains and lakes. I the more willingly refrain from comparisons, because the weather all at once became extremely unfavourable, and compelled me to give up the plan of seeing the whole. I returned to Dublin by way of Limerick, through fertile tracts, tedious bogs, and barren heaths, the rain pouring down all the time. You must be satisfied with this bare enumeration; and, if you desire descriptions of scenery, you may read over again what I wrote last year, about the same time, from Switzerland. My mind is filled with one thought — I can entertain no other — it is that of the inexpressible wretchedness of so many thousands. In England I looked in vain for misery, and all the complaints that I heard seemed to me to be partial and exaggerated: here, no words can express the frightful truth which everywhere meets the eye. To form an idea of it you must see these houses — not houses, but huts — not huts, but hovels, mostly without windows or apertures; the same entrance — the same narrow space for men and hogs — the latter
The ruins of ancient castles were pointed out to me; but how could I take any pleasure in them while the desolate ruined huts surrounded me, and testified the distress of the present times more loudly than the others did the grandeur of the past? But then the lords were of the same race — of the same language; they were on the spot, and the people certainly not so wretched as since the confiscations of the English conquerors. Other huts were half fallen down, but the occupants crept into the remaining half, which was not larger than a coffin for the wretched family.
When I recollect the well-fed rogues and thieves in the English prisons, I admire, notwithstanding the very natural increase of Irish criminals, the power of morality — I wonder that the whole nation does not go over and steal, in order to enjoy a new and happier existence. And then the English boast of the good treatment of their countrymen, while the innocent Irish are obliged to live worse than their cattle. In Parliament they talk for years together whether it is necessary and becoming to leave 100,000 dollars annually (15,000l.) in the hands of the pastors of 520 Protestants, or 10,750 dollars to the pastors of 3 Protestants; while there are thousands here
Which of these ages is the dark and barbarous — the former, when mendicant monks distributed their goods to the poor, and, in their way, gave them the most rational comfort; or the latter, when rich (or bankrupt) aristocrats can see the weal of the church and of religion (or of their relations) only in retaining possession of that which was taken and obtained by violence?
All the blame is thrown on agitators, and discontent produced by artificial means. What absurdity! Every falling hut causes agitation, and every tattered pair of breeches a sans-culotte. Since I have seen Ireland I admire the patience and moderation of the people, that they do not (what would be more excusable in them than in distinguished revolutionists, authors, journalists, Benthamites, baptized and unbaptized Jews) drive out the devil through Beelzebub the prince of the devils.
Thrice-happy Prussia, with its free proprietary peasantry, its agricultural nobles, its contented and tolerant clergy, its well-educated youth!
I endeavoured to discover the original race of the ancient Irish and the beauty of the women. But how could I venture to give an opinion! Take the loveliest of the English maidens from the saloons of the Duke of Devonshire or the Marquis of Lansdowne, carry her — not for life, but for one short season, into an Irish hovel, — feed her on water and potatoes, clothe her in rags,
And yet the children, with their black hair and dark eyes, so gay and playful in their tatters — created in the image of God — are in a few years, by the fault of man and the government, so worn out, without advantage to themselves or others, that the very beasts of the field might look down on them with scorn.
Is what I have said exaggerated, or, perhaps, merely an unseasonable and indecorous fiction? or should I have suppressed it, because it may offend certain parties? What have I to do with O'Connel and his opponents? I have nothing either to hope or to fear from any of them; but to declare what I saw, thought, and felt is my privilege and my duty. Discite justitiam, moniti, et nan temnere divos!