Channel to find in its perfection.

It is sad to see how widely over that fair land the abomination of
desolation has cast its shadow. Many halls are tenantless besides those
of Tara. The ancient owners of the soil--where are they? Not a country
in Europe but is conscious of these restless, careless, homeless
Zingari. In distant provincial towns of France you hear their enormous
blunders in grammar and musical Milesian brogue breaking the uniformity
of dull legitimist _soirées_. Hombourg and Baden are irradiated with the
glory of their whiskers. You find their blue eyes and open, handsome
features diversifying the sameness of wooden-faced Austrian squadrons.
Nay, has it not been whispered that the proudest name in Ireland
attained a bad eminence in the Grecian Archipelago as the captain of the
wickedest of those long low craft that, in the purple dawn or ivory
moonlight, steal silently out from behind the headlands of the Cyclades?

But let us do justice to those who remain behind.

The sceptre of Connemara has passed away from the ancient dynasty. If
the penultimate monarch could rise from his peaceful grave, his place
would know him no more. If he traveled through all his thirty miles of
seaboard, the Scotch laborers would doff their hats more respectfully to
the steward of the "Law Life" than to the humane old homicide. The royal
writ, which he defied from his place at St. Stephen's, might be served
now, I imagine, without danger of the bailiff's breaking his fast on the
same. Claret flows soberly from long-necked bottles whose corks bear the
brand of the wine-merchant, high priced and legal, instead of from the
cask of which the snug sandy cove and the roguish-looking hooker could
have told tales. But, in spite of visionary rents, and poor-rates
sternly real, the Irish squire still clings to the exercise of that