He seems not so much to speak the English language, as literally to translate the Irish; and he borrows so much and so happily from the peculiar idiom of his vernacular tongue, that though his conversation was deficient in matter, it would still possess a singular interest from its manner. But it is far otherwise, there is indeed in the uncultivated mind of this man, much of the _vivida vis anima_ of native genius, which neither time nor misfortune has wholly damped, and which frequently flings the brightest coruscations of thought over the generally pensive tone that pervades his conversation. The extent of his knowledge on subjects of national interest is indeed wonderful; his memory is rich in oral tradition, and most happily faithful to the history and antiquities of his country, which notwithstanding peevish complaints of its degeneracy, he still loves with idolatrous fondness. On these subjects he is always borne away, but upon no subject does he speak with coolness or moderation; he is always in extremes, and the vehemence of his gestures and looks ever corresponds to the energy of his expressions or sentiments. Yet he possesses an infinite deal of that _suavito in modo_, so prevailing and insinuating even among the lower classes of this country; and his natural, or I should rather say his national politeness, frequently induces him to make the art in which he supposes me to excel, the topic of our conversation. While he speaks in rapture of the many fine views this country affords to the genius of the painter, he dwells with melancholy pleasure on the innumerable ruined palaces and abbeys which lay scattered amidst the richest scenes of this romantic province: he generally thus concludes with a melancholy apostrophe: “But the splendid dwelling of princely grandeur, the awful asylum of monastic piety, are just mouldering into oblivion with the memory of those they once sheltered. The sons of little men triumph over those whose arm was strong in war, and whose voice breathed no impotent command; and the descendant of the mighty chieftain has nothing left to distinguish him from the son of the peasant, but the decaying ruins of his ancestor’s castle; while the blasts of a few storms, and the pressure of a few years, shall even of them leave scarce a wreck to tell the traveller the mournful tale of fallen greatness.” When I showed him a sketch I had made of the castle of Inismore, on the evening I had first seen it from the mountain’s summit, he seemed much gratified, and warmly commended its fidelity, shaking his head as he contemplated it, and impressively exclaiming.