however, is the one fact but a natural consequence of the other? No man
for instance ever possessed a higher order of humor, whose temperament
was not naturally melancholy, and no country in the world more clearly
establishes that point than Ireland. Here the melancholy and mirth are
not simply in a proximate state, but frequently flash together, and
again separate so quickly, that the alternation or blending, as the case
may be, whilst it is felt by the spectators, yet stands beyond all known
rules of philosophy to solve it. Any one at all acquainted with Ireland,
knows that in no country is mirth lighter, or sorrow deeper, or the
smile and the tear seen more frequently on the face at the same moment.
Their mirth, however, is not levity, nor their sorrow gloom; and for
this reason none of those dreary and desponding reactions take place,
which, as in France especially, so frequently terminate in suicide.

The recreations of the Irish were very varied and some of them of
a highly intellectual cast. These latter, however, have altogether
disappeared from the country, or at all events are fast disappearing.
The old Harper is now hardly seen; the Senachie, where he exists, is but
a dim and faded representative of that very old Chronicler in his palmy
days; and the Prophecy-man unfortunately has survived the failure of
his best and most cherished predictions. The poor old Prophet's stock
in trade is nearly exhausted, and little now remains but the slaughter
which is to take place at the mill of Louth, when human blood, and the
miller to have six fingers and two thumbs on each hand, as a collateral
prognostication of that bloody event.

The amusement derived from these persons was undoubtedly of a very
imaginative character, and gives sufficient proof, that had the national
intellect been duly cultivated, it is difficult to say in what position
as a literary country Ireland might have stood at this day. At present