The young one joined in chorus. We heard a running fire of pious ejaculations, to each of which Mr. Trench devoutly shouted “Amen!” The noise made it impossible to hear oneself speak. The old woman was particularly terrible, her voice was so piercing. Then from time to time Trench gave a great thump on the ground with his stick, exclaiming, though still with the utmost politeness, “Whish’t! my dear madam! whish’t!” I had always heard that “whish’t” meant silence. It appears that this is so, only it is not in English, but in Irish. But I never saw anything so strange as the way in which the conversation was thus carried on. It had, at all events, the effect of putting us on the best terms with the whole family--a result which the distribution of a few sixpences perhaps tended to accelerate. The women then conducted us back to the carriage, overwhelming us with the noisiest benedictions. “Let me understand,” said I to Mr. Trench as soon as we were a little way from the cottage. “Will you explain to me how you can ask 3_l._ rent from those unfortunate people for less than an acre of very bad land and for the right of valueless pasturage that is absolutely visionary, for you see the state of his two cows?” “Allow me to wait a few moments before answering your questions,” he replied. Ten minutes later we came to a bend in the road, which having now reached the top of the hillock that we had been ascending since we left Killarney, turns suddenly to the left, and then re-descends into another valley, still wilder than the first, and where there are no more trees. The names in this country are so diabolic that I avoid writing them down as much as possible, because I foresee that the proofs would have to be sent at least four times to the printers before we could expect the compositors to reproduce them as they are spelt. Another thing is that nine-tenths of my French readers would abandon the attempt to read them. For instance, the valley we have just passed through is called Coom-a-Dhuv; the last lake we saw is the Loc-an-bric-Dearg; the mountain opposite is Cro-mag-lan; and the pass by which we go from one valley to another bears the soft name of Derrygariff. One of my old relations often excites herself about the obstinacy that leads English people to say _pocket-handkerchief_ when it would be so much easier to pronounce _mouchoir de poche_. And really, without going so far as this worthy lady, I cannot help thinking that it must be very tiring in the end to be obliged to utter such long words, and that it must seriously complicate existence. We are now at Derrygariff, since there is a Derrygariff. On the right side of the road stands a horrible house of dry stones, from which an old woman came out, very dry too, and not less tattered than those whom we had just left. On seeing her, Trench abruptly leaned back in the carriage. She rushed towards us, crying in a whining voice: