Our route lay up the country; the country at first offered no very remarkable feature, it was pretty, but tame.  On the second day, however, its appearance had altered, it had become more wild; a range of distant mountains bounded the horizon.  We passed through several villages, as I suppose I may term them, of low huts, the walls formed of rough stones without mortar, the roof of flags laid over wattles and wicker-work; they seemed to be inhabited solely by women and children; the latter were naked, the former, in general, blear-eyed beldames, who sat beside the doors on low stools, spinning.  We saw, however, both men and women working at a distance in the fields.

I was thirsty; and going up to an ancient crone, employed in the manner which I have described, I asked her for water; she looked me in the face, appeared to consider a moment, then tottering into her hut, presently reappeared with a small pipkin of milk, which she offered to me with a trembling hand.  I drank the milk; it was sour, but I found it highly refreshing.  I then took out a penny and offered it to her, whereupon she shook her head, smiled, and, patting my face with her skinny hand, murmured some words in a tongue which I had never heard before.

I walked on by my father’s side, holding the stirrup-leather of his horse; presently several low uncouth cars passed by, drawn by starved cattle:  the drivers were tall fellows, with dark features and athletic frames—­they wore long loose blue cloaks with sleeves, which last, however, dangled unoccupied:  these cloaks appeared in tolerably good condition, not so their under garments.  On their heads were broad slouching hats:  the generality of them were bare-footed.  As they passed, the soldiers jested with them in the patois of East Anglia, whereupon the fellows laughed, and appeared to jest with the soldiers; but what they said who knows, it being in a rough guttural language, strange and wild.  The soldiers stared at each other, and were silent.

‘A strange language that!’ said a young officer to my father, ’I don’t understand a word of it; what can it be?’

‘Irish!’ said my father, with a loud voice, ’and a bad language it is, I have known it of old, that is, I have often heard it spoken when I was a guardsman in London.  There’s one part of London where all the Irish live—­at least all the worst of them—­and there they hatch their villainies and speak this tongue; it is that which keeps them together and makes them dangerous:  I was once sent there to seize a couple of deserters—­Irish—­who had taken refuge amongst their companions; we found them in what was in my time called a ken, that is a house where only thieves and desperadoes are to be found.  Knowing on what kind of business I was bound, I had taken with me a sergeant’s party; it was well I did so.  We found the deserters in a large room, with at least thirty ruffians, horrid-looking fellows, seated about a long table, drinking, swearing, and talking Irish.  Ah! we had a tough battle, I remember; the two fellows did nothing, but sat still, thinking it best to be quiet; but the rest, with an ubbubboo like the blowing up of a powder-magazine, sprang up, brandishing their sticks; for these fellows always carry sticks with them even to bed, and not unfrequently spring up in their sleep, striking left and right.’