It was about Christmas in the year 1831 that I received an invitation to spend the holidays with a friend who resided in a valley embosomed amongst the loftiest of those mountains which form the boundary between the King’s and Queen’s counties. The name of my host was Garret Dalton; he held a considerable tract of land at a low rent, and by hard working and thrifty living contrived not only to support his family in comparative comfort, but to “lay up a snug penny in the horn” for his only daughter Nanny, who was at this time about fourteen years of age, and, as her fond father often proudly boasted, “the patthern ov as purty a colleen as you’d find from the seven churches of Clonmacnoise to the hill ov Howth--wherever that was.” Garret was generous and hospitable; his house “was known to all the vagrant train,” and the way-worn pilgrim, the wandering minstrel, the itinerant “boccough,” and the strolling vender of the news and gossip of the day, were always secure of a welcome reception at his comfortable fire-side. Amongst the most constant of his guests was one Maurice O’Sullivan, a native of the county of Cork. Maurice was a most venerable-looking personage--tall, gaunt, athletic, and stone blind. He was about eighty years of age; his white hair flowed on his shoulders, and he played the Irish bagpipes delightfully. He was the lineal descendant of a family still famous in the annals of the “green isle;” and although now compelled to wander through his native land in the garb and character of a blind piper, he had once seen better days, and was possessed of education and intelligence far superior to most of his caste. He was intimately acquainted with the sad history of his country, was devotedly attached to the dogmas of the fairy creed, could recite charms and interpret dreams, and was deeply conversant in all those witch legends and traditions for which the Munster peasantry are so peculiarly celebrated. Hence Maurice was always a special favourite with my enthusiastic friend, who regularly entertained him at his own table, and who, when they would have disposed of their plain but comfortable and substantial meal, would treat his blind guest to repeated “rounds” of good “half and half,” composed of water from the spring, and the _potteen_ of the valley. It was night-fall when I arrived, and the happy family, consisting of Garret and his wife, Nanny their eldest girl, and her two little brothers, with Paddy Bawn the “sarvint boy,” and Ouny the “girl,” including blind Maurice, were collected in a smiling group around the immense turf fire. In that day teetotalism had made little progress in Ireland; a huge copper kettle was therefore soon hissing on the fire; a large grey-beard of mountain-dew stood on the huge oak-table; tumblers and glasses glittered in their respective places: and, in a few minutes we were all engaged in discussing the merits of a large jug of potteen punch.