“Young man,” said he, “the stranger’s best gift is upon you, for the eye that sees you for the first time, wishes it may not be the last; and the ear that drinks your words, grows thirsty as it quaffs them. So says our good Father John here, for you have made him your friend ere you are his acquaintance; and as the _friend of my friend_, my heart opens to you; you are welcome to my house as long as it is pleasant to you; when it ceases to be so, we will part with you with regret, and speed your journey with our wishes and our prayers.” Could my heart have lent its eloquence to my lip--but that was impossible; very imperfect indeed was the justice I did to my feelings; but as my peroration was a eulogium on these romantic scenes and interesting ruins, the contemplation of which I had nearly purchased with my life, the Prince seemed as much pleased as if my gratitude had poured forth with _Ciceronean_ eloquence, and he replied: “When your health will permit, you can pursue here uninterrupted your charming art. Once the domains of Inismore could have supplied the painter’s pencil with scenes of smiling felicity, and the song of the bard--with many a theme of joy and triumph; but the harp can only mourn over the fallen greatness of its sons; and the pencil has nothing left to delineate but the ruins which shelter the gray head of the last of their descendants.” These words were pronounced with an emotion that shook the dilapidated frame of the Prince, and the tear which dimmed the spirit of his eye, formed an associate in that of his auditor. He gazed on me for a moment with a look that seemed to say, “you feel for me, then--yet you are an Englishman and taking the arm of Father John, he walked towards a window which commanded a view of the ocean, whose troubled bosom beat wildly against the castle cliffs. “The day is sad,” said he, “and makes the soul gloomy: we will summon O’Gallagher to the hall, and drive away sorrow with music.” Then turning to me, he added, with a faint smile “the tones of the Irish harp have still the power to breathe a spirit over the drooping soul of an Irishman; but if its strains disturb your repose, command its silence: the pleasure of the host always rests in that of his guest.” With these words, and leaning on the arm of his chaplain, he retired; while the nurse, looking affectionately after him, raised her hands and exclaimed: “Och! there you go, and may the blessing of the Holy Virgin go with you, for it’s yourself that’s the jewel of a Prince!” The impression made on me by this brief but interesting interview, is not to be expressed. You should see the figure, the countenance, the dress of the Prince; the appropriate scenery of the old Gothic chamber, the characteristic appearance of the priest and the nurse, to understand the combined and forcible effect the whole produced.