I frequently find myself, at present, turning up my nose at Irish when I hear it in the street; yet I have still a kind of regard for it, the fine old language: A labhair Padruic n'insefail nan riogh.
One of the most peculiar features of this part of Ireland is the ruined castles, which are so thick and numerous that the face of the country appears studded with them, it being difficult to choose any situation from which one, at least, may not be descried.

They are of various ages and styles of architecture, some of great antiquity, like the stately remains which crown the Crag of Cashel; others built by the early English conquerors; others, and probably the greater part, erections of the times of Elizabeth and Cromwell.

The whole speaking monuments of the troubled and insecure state of the country, from the most remote periods to a comparatively modern time.
From the windows of the room where I slept I had a view of one of these old places--an indistinct one, it is true, the distance being too great to permit me to distinguish more than the general outline.

I had an anxious desire to explore it.

It stood to the south-east; in which direction, however, a black bog intervened, which had more than once baffled all my attempts to cross it.