No other company at dinner except my cheerful and good-humoured friend Missie Macdonald,[5] so called in fondness.  One bottle of champagne with the ladies’ assistance, two of claret.  I observe that both these great connoisseurs were very nearly, if not quite, agreed, that there are no absolutely undoubted originals of Queen Mary.  But how then should we be so very distinctly informed as to her features?  What has become of all the originals which suggested these innumerable copies?  Surely Mary must have been as unfortunate in this as in other particulars of her life.[6]

November 21.—­I am enamoured of my journal.  I wish the zeal may but last.  Once more of Ireland.  I said their poverty was not exaggerated; neither is their wit—­nor their good-humour—­nor their whimsical absurdity—­nor their courage.

Wit.—­I gave a fellow a shilling on some occasion when sixpence was the fee.  “Remember you owe me sixpence, Pat.”  “May your honour live till I pay you!” There was courtesy as well as wit in this, and all the clothes on Pat’s back would have been dearly bought by the sum in question.

Good-humour.—­There is perpetual kindness in the Irish cabin; butter-milk, potatoes, a stool is offered, or a stone is rolled that your honour may sit down and be out of the smoke, and those who beg everywhere else seem desirous to exercise free hospitality in their own houses.  Their natural disposition is turned to gaiety and happiness; while a Scotchman is thinking about the term-day, or, if easy on that subject, about hell in the next world—­while an Englishman is making a little hell of his own in the present, because his muffin is not well roasted—­Pat’s mind is always turned to fun and ridicule.  They are terribly excitable, to be sure, and will murther you on slight suspicion, and find out next day that it was all a mistake, and that it was not yourself they meant to kill at all at all.

Absurdity.—­They were widening the road near Lord Claremont’s seat as we passed.  A number of cars were drawn up together at a particular point, where we also halted, as we understood they were blowing a rock, and the shot was expected presently to go off.  After waiting two minutes or so, a fellow called out something, and our carriage as a planet, and the cars for satellites, started all forward at once, the Irishmen whooping and crying, and the horses galloping.  Unable to learn the meaning of this, I was only left to suppose that they had delayed firing the intended shot till we should pass, and that we were passing quickly to make the delay as short as possible.  No such thing.  By dint of making great haste, we got within ten yards of the rock when the blast took place, throwing dust and gravel on our carriage, and had our postillion brought us a little nearer (it was not for want of hallooing and flogging that he did not), we should have had a still more serious share of the explosion.  The explanation I received from the drivers was, that they had been told by the overseer that as the mine had been so long in going off, he dared say we would have time to pass it—­so we just waited long enough to make the danger imminent.  I have only to add that two or three people got behind the carriage, just for nothing but to see how our honours got past.