I wonder whether the novel-reading world--that part of it, at
least, which may honour my pages-will be offended if I lay the plot
of this story in Ireland! That there is a strong feeling against
things Irish it is impossible to deny. Irish servants need not
apply; Irish acquaintances are treated with limited confidence;
Irish cousins are regarded as being decidedly dangerous; and Irish
stories are not popular with the booksellers.

For myself, I may say that if I ought to know anything about any
place, I ought to know something about Ireland; and I do strongly
protest against the injustice of the above conclusions. Irish
cousins I have none. Irish acquaintances I have by dozens; and Irish
friends, also, by twos and threes, whom I can love and
cherish--almost as well, perhaps, as though they had been born in
Middlesex. Irish servants I have had some in my house for years, and
never had one that was faithless, dishonest, or intemperate. I have
travelled all over Ireland, closely as few other men can have done,
and have never had my portmanteau robbed or my pocket picked. At
hotels I have seldom locked up my belongings, and my carelessness
has never been punished. I doubt whether as much can be said for
English inns.

Irish novels were once popular enough. But there is a fashion in
novels, as there is in colours and petticoats; and now I fear they
are drugs in the market. It is hard to say why a good story should
not have a fair chance of success whatever may be its bent; why it
should not be reckoned to be good by its own intrinsic merits alone;