Amongst the many extraordinary characters with which this country abounds, such as fools, madmen, onshochs, omadhauns, hair-brains, crack-brains, and naturals, I have particularly taken notice of one. His character is rather singular. He begs about Newbridge, county of Kildare: he will accept of any thing offered him, except money--that he scornfully refuses; which fulfils the old adage, “None but a fool will refuse money.” His habitation is the ruins of an old fort or ancient stronghold called Walshe’s Castle, on the road to Kilcullen, near Arthgarvan, and within a few yards of the river Liffey, far away from any dwelling. There he lies on a bundle of straw, with no other covering save the clothes he wears all day. Many is the evening I have seen this poor crazy creature plod along the road to his desolate lodging. There is another stamp of singularity on his character: his name is Pat Mowlds, but who dare attempt to call him Pat? It must be Mr Mowlds, or he will not only be offended himself, but will surely offend those who neglect this respect. In general he is of a downcast, melancholy disposition, boasts of being very learned, is much delighted when any one gives him a ballad or old newspaper. Sometimes he gets into a very good humour, and will relate many anecdotes in a droll style. About two years ago, as I happened to be sauntering along the border of the Curragh, I overtook this solitary being. “A fine morning, Mr Mowlds,” was my address. “Yes, sur, thank God, a very fine morning; shure iv we don’t have fine weather in July, when will we have it?” “What a great space of ground this is to lie waste--what a quantity of provisions it would produce--what a number of people it would employ and feed!” said I. “Oh, that’s very thrue, sur; but was it all sown in pittaties, what would become ov the poor sheep? Shure we want mutton as well as pittaties--besides, all the devarshin we have every year.----Why, thin, maybe ye have e’er an ould newspaper or ballit about ye?” I said I had not, but a couple of Penny Journals should be at his service which I had in my pocket. “Och, any thing at all that will keep a body amused, though I have got a great many of them; but among them all I don’t see any picther or any account of the round tower ferninst ye; nor any account ov the fire Saint Bridget _kept_ in night an’ day for six hundred years; nor any thing about the raison why it was put out; nor any thing about how Saint Bridget came by this piece ov ground; nor any thing about the ould Earl ov Kildare, who rides round the Curragh every seventh year with silver spurs and silver reins to his horse--God bless ye, sur, have ye e’er a bit of tobacky?--there’s not a word about this poor counthry at all.” My senses were now driven to anxiety--I gave him some tobacco. He then resumed:--