* It is common to see them come to gentlemen’s houses with a little vial bottle to beg a table spoonful of wine (for a sick relative,) which they esteem the elixir of life. ** To be able to keep any disorder from the heart, is supposed, (by the lower orders of the Irish,) to be the secret of longevity. Nothing could be more wildly sweet than the whistle or song of the ploughman or labourer as we passed along; it was of so singular a nature, that I frequently paused to catch it; it is a species of voluntary recitative, and so melancholy, that every plaintive note breathes on the heart of the auditor a tale of hopeless despondency or incurable woe. By heavens! I could have wept as I listened, and found a luxury in tears. * * Mr. Walker, in his Historical Memoir of the Irish Bards, has given a specimen of the Irish plough-tune? and adds, “While the Irish ploughman drives his team, and the female peasant milks her cow, they warble a succession of wild notes which bids defiance to the rules of composition, yet are inexpressibly sweet.” The evening was closing in fast, and we were within a mile of Bally--------, when, to a day singularly fine, succeeded one of the most violent storms of rain and wind I had ever witnessed. Murtoch, who seemed only to regard it on my account, insisted on throwing his great coat over me, and pointed to a cabin at a little distance, where, he said, “if my Honour would demean myself so far, I could get good shelter for the night.” “Are you sure of that, Murtoch?” said I. Murtoch shook his head, and looking full in my face, said something in Irish; which at my request he translated--the words were--“Happy are _they_ whose roof shelters the head of the traveller. “And is it indeed a source of happiness to you, Murtoch?” Murtoch endeavoured to convince me it _was_, even upon a _selfish_ principle: “For (said he) it is thought right lucky to have a stranger sleep beneath one’s roof.” If superstition was ever thus on the side of benevolence, even reason herself would hesitate to depose her. We had now reached the door of the cabin, which Murtoch opened without ceremony, saying as he entered--“May God and the Virgin Mary pour a blessing on this house!” The family, who were all circled round a fine turf fire that blazed on the earthen hearth, replied, “Come in, and a thousand welcomes”--for Murtoch served as interpreter, and translated as they were spoken these warm effusions of Irish cordiality. The master of the house, a venerable old man, perceiving me, made a low bow, and added, “You are welcome, and ten thousand welcomes, _gentleman._” *