ing to dry some
drenched article of dress, or extracting from damp and dripping pockets
their several contents.

'This, then,' said the younger man--'this is the picturesque Ireland
our tourist writers tell us of; and the land where the _Times_ says
the traveller will find more to interest him than in the Tyrol or the
Oberland.'

'What about the climate?' said the other, in a deep bass voice.

'Mild and moist, I believe, are the epithets; that is, it makes you damp,
and it keeps you so.'

'And the inns?'

'The inns, it is admitted, might be better; but the traveller is admonished
against fastidiousness, and told that the prompt spirit of obligeance,
the genial cordiality, he will meet with, are more than enough to repay
him for the want of more polished habits and mere details of comfort and
convenience.'

'Rotten humbug! _I_ don't want cordiality from my innkeeper.'

'I should think not! As, for instance, a bit of carpet in this room would
be worth more than all the courtesy that showed us in.'

'What was that lake called--the first place I mean?' asked Lockwood.

'Lough Brin. I shouldn't say but with better weather it might be pretty.'

A half-grunt of dissent was all the reply, and Walpole went on--

It's no use painting a landscape when it is to be smudged all over with
Indian ink. There are no tints in mountains swathed in mist, no colour in
trees swamped with moisture; everything seems so imbued with damp, one
fancies it would take two years in the tropics to dry Ireland.'

'I asked that fellow who showed us the way here, why he didn't pitch off
those wet rags he wore, and walk away in all the dignity of nakedness.'

A large dish of rashers and eggs, and a mess of Irish stew, which the
landlord now placed on the table, with a foaming jug of malt, seemed to
rally them out of their ill-temper; and for some time they talked away in a
more cheerful tone.

'Better than I hoped for,' said Walpole.

'Fair!'

'And that ale, too--I suppose it is called ale--is very tolerable.'

'It's downright good. Let us have some more of it.' And he shouted,
'Master!' at the top of his voice. 'More of this,' said Lockwood, touching
the measure. 'Beer or ale, which is it?'

'Castle Bellingham, sir,' replied the landlord; 'beats all the Bass and
Allsopp that ever was brewed.'

'You think so, eh?'

'I'm sure of it, sir. The club that sits here had a debate on it one night,
and put it to the vote, and there wasn't o