Everything was dripping. In many places the waters were out, and the
low-lying lands were in a flood. Potatoes in pits linger in the fields,
turnips and cabbages in the rows where they grew, bearing witness that
even the last hard winter was many degrees behind the winters of Canada.
The land on this road is not so good as what I left behind; therefore
there were few gentlemen's houses, and the small farmhouses wore the
usual poverty-stricken and neglected appearance. There were more waste
hillsides devoted to whins, and flat fields tussocked with rushes as we
swept on through the dripping country, under the sides of almost
perpendicular rocks, down which little waterfalls, like spun silver,
fell and broadened into bridal veils ere they reached the bottom. Then
along the historical Foyle, "whose swelling waters," rather muddy at
this season of the year, "roll northward to the main," and so following
its windings and curvings we flashed into Derry.




VI.

THE HILLS OF LOUGH SWILLY--TENANTS' IMPROVEMENTS--A MAN-OF-WAR AND MEN
OF LOVE--THE PIG--RAMELTON--INTELLIGENT ROOKS--FROM POTATOES AND MILK
TO CORNMEAL STIRABOUT AND NOTHING--MILFORD--THE LATE LORD LEITRIM'S
INJUSTICE AND INHUMANITY--ACCOUNT OF HIS DEATH.


On the 14th March we left Derry by train, crossing from the banks of the
Foyle to Lough Swilly. Got on board a little steamer, marvellously like
an American puffer, and panted and throbbed across the waters of the
Lough. The sun shone pleasantly, the sky was blue, which deserves to be