I was going to add that the light food may have something to say to this, but as the Irish are not remarkable for their small families, this would be an unwarrantable aspersion.

Of course in the big towns there are women of no importance, and Dublin has always borne rather a lively reputation in this respect, though that in no way affects the general high standard of morality.

The climate of the country, despite the moisture, is one conducive to good health, owing to the absence of any extreme vicissitudes.

It may be asked why, considering the overcrowding and insanitary conditions of living in the miserable cabins, there is not more disease, and my reply is that the peat which is burnt is so healthy as to act as a disinfectant.

Indigestion, like lunacy, is, however, largely on the increase.

Nearly any old woman—­or old man for the matter of that—­as well as a sad majority of younger people, will tell you:—­

‘I have a pain in the stomach,’ with the accent on the second syllable of the locality.

This is due to excessive consumption of tea.

Nearly twenty times as much tea must be drunk now in Kerry as in the early sixties, and so far as I can recollect tea was unknown, not only in the cabins but among the farmers until after the famine.

Fairly good tea is obtained, for the Irish will never buy tea unless they are asked a high price, and for that price they usually, owing to competition, obtain an article not too perniciously adulterated.

What is highly injurious is the method of making the tea.

A lot is thrown into the pot on the fire in the cabin in the morning, and there it stands simmering all day long, that those who want it may help themselves.

This is in sharp contrast to the method employed by Dr. Barter, the famous hydropathic physician at Cork, one of the cleverest men I ever met and one of the very few who never permitted medicine under any circumstances, relying on water, packing, and Turkish baths, with strict attention to diet.

He used to make tea by putting half a teaspoonful into a wire strainer which he held over his cup, and pouring boiling water upon the leaves, the contents of his cup became a pale yellow, to which he added a little milk and instantly drank it off, the whole process lasting but a few seconds.  I remember he equally disapproved of the Russian method of drinking tea in a glass with lemon, of the fashionable way of letting the water ‘stand off the boil’ upon the leaves in a teapot, and of the Hibernian stewing arrangement alluded to above.

Personally I regard all hydros as so many emporiums of disease, an opinion in which I am singular, but that does not convince me I am wrong.

A bailiff once went to St. Ann’s Hydro to serve a writ, and he told me afterwards that he served it on his victim in a Turkish bath, remarking:—­

’And your heart would have melted within your honour in pity for the poor creature not having a pocket to put the document in.’