We made the trip in about four hours; but they seemed to me no less than twelve—for I was mortally sick. I thought at one time that I was surely dying. I did not care much; people never do when they are sea-sick; still, I thought I should prefer a more romantic sort of a death, and I was heartily glad when I found myself on shore, at Kingstown, seven miles below Dublin, where we took the railway for that city. We arrived late at night, and drove to our hotel on a regular Irish jaunting car. This is a very funny looking vehicle—low and broad, with two wheels, concealed by the seats, which run lengthwise. There is another kind, called the inside car. An Irishman once explained the difference to an English traveller, in this way: "An outside car, yer honor, has the wheels inside, and an inside car has the wheels outside."
All Irish carmen drive furiously, and the cars go jumping and hopping along, and spinning round the corners, at such a rate that one feels rather nervous at first, and has no little difficulty in keeping on. But like many other things, it's easy enough, when you get used to it.
We found Gresham's Hotel a very comfortable, pleasant place, and we soon felt at home, though we saw none but Irish faces, and heard only the Irish brogue around us; for those faces were smiling and cordial, and that rich, musical brogue seemed bubbling up from kindly hearts.
I have not told you much about Wales in this chapter, because rushing through the country, as I did, I really saw very little of it. The people seemed quiet, cleanly, and industrious; but they did not look, or dress at all like the English. I noticed that many of the women seemed rather masculine in their tastes—wearing hats and coats like the men, and that the children were dressed in an odd old-fashioned way, and looked serious, shrewd, and mature—almost as though they were a race of dwarfs. The Welsh language had to me a strange, harsh, barbaric sound, and when listening to it, I realized for the first time since I had left America, that I was indeed far away from home. I do not doubt, however, but that if I had seen more of the Welsh, I should have liked them heartily, for they are said to be very kindly, honest, and hospitable. They are naturally brave and sturdy lovers of liberty. In old times the English had a hard and tedious struggle with them, before they could subdue them. Often, when they thought they had the whole rude nation under their hands, or rather under their feet, the rebellious spirit would break out again in a new spot, fiercer and hotter than ever, and all the work had to be done over again.
Many of the stories in Welsh history are very grand and heroic, but they are also very terrible; and I think you will find more to your taste a simple little story of domestic life, which I have picked up somewhere, and can assure you is as true as a great deal we find in history.
THE FISHERMAN'S RETURN.
A good many years ago, somewhere on the southwestern coast of Wales, there lived an honest fisherman, by the name of John Jenkins. The Jenkinses are a very numerous and respectable family in Wales, and so are the Joneses.
Mrs. Jenkins was a Jones, but she was not half so proud of her high and vast family connections, as she was of her industrious, hardy husband, and her pretty little daughter, Fanny.
When Fanny was a fortnight-old baby, the least, puny, little, pink creature, wrapped in flannel, there came up a dreadful storm, and a small London packet was wrecked on the coast, near her father's cottage. The passengers were all lost except a little boy, about three years of age, whom John Jenkins saved at the risk of his life. Two of the crew escaped, but they could tell nothing of the child more than that he came from Ireland, and was bound for London, with his nurse. The boy could give no clear account of himself, but he wore round his neck a gold locket, with arms engraved on it, and containing a lock of black hair, twined with small pearls. So the fisherman concluded that he must belong to some great family; and when they asked what was his name, they expected to hear some prodigious great title, such as earl, or marquis; but when he proudly answered, "Brian O'Neill," they could make nothing of it—little knowing, simple folks as they were, that the O'Neills were once kings and princes in Ireland. But that was in the old, old time; great changes have taken place since, and there are a few O'Neills quite in common life nowadays.
John Jenkins did all that lay in his power to find the parents and home of the child—but he was poor and ignorant—the lord of the manor was a little boy, at school, and the steward could not or would not help him; so, his efforts all proving useless, he adopted Brian, and brought him up as his son, giving him a tolerably good education, and training him for his own honest calling.