ABSTRACT
During the few days I was in Dublin, I perceived that it was not only agreed upon by everybody I had the happiness to converse with that I ought to make a tour in Ireland, but everybody was obliging enough to tell me exactly where I ought to proceed. “You must go to Cork,” said one; “Belfast is the place that you should visit,” said another. All said “Of course you’ll go to Killarney!” After gratefully thanking everybody for their kind endeavours to steer a compassless and rudderless bark into its proper harbour, I asked—as it were quite incidentally—in what part of Ireland was to be seen the greatest amount of poverty and misery; and as almost everybody, in reply, named the counties of Mayo and Galway, in the secret chamber of my mind I quietly determined that, without saying a word to any one, I would make my tour in that direction. Everybody was so obliging, that I believe I could have obtained a sackfull of letters of introduction; and like a postman, could have spent the whole of my time in delivering them. On reflection, however, I considered that, instead of going to strange people who would often encumber me with help, the best mode of summarily obtaining the simple information I desired would be to get an order to the constabulary, who, throughout Ireland, are ubiquitous. I conceived that this highly intelligent body of men would of course be intimately acquainted, not only with their respective localities, but with the persons within them best competent to instruct me. Lastly, it was evident that an order addressed to the constabulary would also, on production, be a pass into any jails or workhouses I might desire to visit.
