We reached Kenmare about six o’clock. It is a pretty little port, situated on one of the deepest of the innumerable bays that the great Atlantic rollers have washed out of the west coast of Ireland; they form havens that would be invaluable for commerce--if there were any. There is a gate in the chief square of Kenmare, I may say the only square, through which we enter a beautiful park, and in the midst of it stands one of those small English villas, which look foolish when they are placed side by side in a row, but which, standing alone, are really charming. This one is hidden under a thick mantle of climbing plants, through which the large glass panes of the bow windows glitter brightly. This is Lansdowne Lodge, the residence provided by the Marquis of Lansdowne for the use of his agent. The interior is not less delightful than the exterior. The hall is ornamented with a number of deer and elk horns, found in admirable preservation in the turf pits. I had already seen some superb specimens the other day at Sir Croker Barrington’s. To the left opens a dining-room, where at eight o’clock some of the inhabitants of Kenmare assembled, to whom Mr. Trench wished to introduce me. The chief dish on the table was a splendid salmon that one of these gentlemen had killed two hours before. The conversation was most lively and interesting, but really whilst listening to it one feels in a dream. For instance, I discover that in compliment to me these gentlemen have consented to dine away from home, but that it is a very exceptional circumstance, and they are not sure that they may not regret it. No one dare go out at night for fear of being shot. One of them, who is employed on the estate, has just heard that he is to be boycotted, because of an eviction in which he was concerned. He expected that on the morrow the butcher would refuse to supply him with meat, but he consoled himself by the reflection that he had some biscuits and some tins of preserves in the house. After dinner we went to Mr. Trench’s study to smoke. I sat down by a small table on which stood a candlestick, and placed my coffee by it. “Excuse me, dear sir,” said one of the guests, addressing me, half laughing, half serious, “but you are wrong to sit there. You see, if any one fired at us through the window you might be hurt. There, allow me to move your chair a little. Now you are safe. And besides, hanging on the wall within reach of your hand you have a loaded revolver and a tomahawk--both excellent weapons. Try the edge of the tomahawk. Look, too, on the mantel-piece, there is a bowie knife; some people prefer a bowie knife, but I like the tomahawk best, and this one is extremely sharp.”