inlet that smugglers used to steal by night—
as the pirates of the olden time had done
before them. They used to slip in on one
side of the island, while the Government
cruiser was watching the other; and up they
came, in the shadow of the mountains, and
behind the screen of the promontories, lying
hid in some chasm of the rocks if the enemy
came by; and always winning their way up,
sooner or later, to the still dark cove, on
whose brink stands that ivied ruin. We must
remember that smuggling was then and there
considered rather an act of patriotism than
an offence. The inhabitants of these coasts
were some of the most disaffected of the
Irish; and they amazingly enjoyed depriving
England, and the English part of their own
Government, of the produce of the Customs,
while carrying on a good trade with their
dear friends, the French and Spaniards, and
making their own fortunes at the same time.
Not small, therefore, was the amount of
smuggling that went forward—if the local
histories are true—at that ivied house, and,
in a somewhat more genteel and disguised
manner, at Derrynane Abbey, the residence
formerly of an uncle of O'Connell, and then
his own. And the rocks of Valencia itself
afford great facilities for the same practice,
which used to go on almost unchecked by the
coast-guard who were, and still are, stationed
on the island. I saw their flag, the other
day, floating half-mast high, in mourning for
Wellington. The men have little to do now
but to learn and tell the news, when their
routine duty is done; for France, Spain, and
Ireland are no longer the foes of England,
and the reduction of Customs duties has made
smuggling no longer worth while; so that the
coast-guard have but a dull life of it. And
so have the constabulary. Poor fellows!
there is scarcely anything for them to do, now
that industry, bringing regular good wages,
has succeeded to the gambling of an illicit
trade, with its occasional frays and drunken
bouts.

I saw them making the most of a small
incident, last Sunday, for want of any more
serious employment. In general, they look
out, yawning, from the barred windows of
their barrack; or rub away at their brass
plates and buckles, which are already as
bright as the Queen's dinner service; or
lean over a wall peeling an apple, or rush
out to see a traveller pass by. On Sunday
last, a dozen or so of half-drunk young
men came over, in a high wind, from the
mainland to Valencia, raced to the little
inn in a staggering sort of way, took
possession of a parlour, where all smoked
and talked together; peeped into another
parlour where two ladies were sitting—
invaded the kitchen and lent a hand to the
cooking, shutting up the oven, so as to spoil
the apple pie that was baking for the ladies'
dinner—and presently burst away again,
declaring that they would have a sail in the
sound. The wind was now in a roaring state,
and the waves were curling with foam, while
Neptune's sheep jumped up most pertinaciously
against the black rocks. Out went
everybody to see how the silly fellows would
manage: the old landlady, with her shawl
over her head, in her little front garden; the
neighbours on points which overlooked the
sound; and the gallant soldierly constabulary
showing themselves on the road and the little
pier. Boats were in readiness, and everybody
on the watch, with all their clothes fluttering
in the wind. There it was presently—that
crowded boat—flying along with all its sails
out, desperately awry, as if it must fill the
next moment. It did not, however. The
fellows had better luck than they deserved.
They struck the ferry pier at the right place,
tumbled out, toppled over each other upon a
car, and dashed off upon the Cahirciveen
road. The adventure was over; and the
constabulary had only to go home again.

Despairing of any higher order of romance
than this, I was disposed to see what the
industry of Valencia now is. So a comrade
and I begged the favour of a resident to let
his car to us, on Monday morning, that we
might see something that we had heard of—
something better than smuggling—up among
the hills. We saw that, and a good deal
more, in the course of our remarkable
drive.

There are two main roads in Valencia—the
upper and lower—running nearly its whole
length, which is about five Irish miles; that
is, nearly seven English. We went by the
lower, and returned by the upper. Besides
the well-known spectacle of the Irish cabin—
that sad spectacle, too well known to need
to be described again—we saw some curious
indications of the ways of the inhabitants.
To save the trouble of putting up gates
to the fields, each man who had a cart had
put it in the gateway. This kept out the
cow, but it let in the pigs and fowls; and it
did not matter much to the cow after all. She
had only the additional trouble of getting over
the low earthen fence—which every cow did
to get out of the way of our car. One woman
had taken her two cows into the potato plot
with her—to help her to dig potatoes, no
doubt. At a distance, the thatched roofs
(weedy, and without eaves) and the walls by
the roadside appeared to be vandyked with
some pattern of a dirty white colour. On
coming near, we found this to be a row of
split fish, drying. Fresh fish may be had
every day, for the catching; but the people
prefer their fish salt. We looked abroad over
the sound, but there was not one single fishing-
boat nor any sort of vessel; but on some
high land lay a boat on the grass, the only
one we saw. Its being there seemed rather
like an Irish bull, while the water below
looked so blank for want of it. Next, we
were stopped for some minutes. A young
farmer had thought proper to choose the