The boats are few in number, though the depth of the channel would allow ships of the heaviest tonnage to go up to within five miles of Limerick. I notice hardly two or three sailing boats at anchor on this four hours’ journey. What an admirable harbour for an active commerce would be that broad estuary, opening directly opposite to America, on the extreme point of the European continent. It is the natural point of arrival and departure for the Transatlantic steamers, which would reach New York in five days from there. Engineers have dreamed of this possibility. But to justify a maritime movement, and legitimise such enterprise, a great commerce, an industry that Ireland lacks, would be wanted. Gentlemen of an engineering turn, come back again in a century or two. * * * * * At Tarbert, where we stop to take passengers, a fort opens its loop-holes, armed with guns, on the river. Redcoats are encamping at the foot of the fortress, and the morning breeze carries to us the rough voice of a non-commissioned officer drilling his men. One might imagine him addressing the _Invincibles_ across the ocean somewhat after this guise: “Here we are, keeping watch: If ever this alluring bay tempt you to come over, you shall find us ready to receive you!”... The helm trembles; the boat goes on its course, and soon Tarbert melts behind us in the sunny haze. On board, the travellers resemble those seen in summer on all great rivers—merchants bent on a pleasure trip; judges and barristers, having taken leave of briefs; professors enjoying their holidays, with wives, daughters, sons, goods, and chattels—all have the sun-burnt complexion and the satisfied look one brings back from the seaside. They have been staying on the beautiful shores of the County Clare, and are returning home with a provision of health for one year. La Fontaine has already noticed that, travelling, one is sure to see “the monk poring over his breviary.” Here the proportion is far greater than in the ancient coach; it is not one priest we have on board, but a dozen, all sleek, fat, and prosperous, dressed in good stout broadcloth, as smooth as their rubicund faces, and provided with gold chains resting on comfortable abdomens. One remark, by the way. When you meet an Irish peasant on the road, he stops, wishes you good-day, and adds, “Please, sir, what is the time?” Not that he cares much to know. He is perfectly well able to read the time on the great clock of the heavens. But it is his own manner of saying, “I can see, sir, that you are a man of substance—one of the great ones of this earth—_since you have a watch_. My sincere congratulations!”