The names of Ireland's great men would fill a long list.
One might almost say that all that is most delicate and most witty in English literature is of Irish origin.
When we have added that the Duke of Wellington was an Irishman, perhaps we shall have succeeded in showing that England is very far yet from having paid her little debt of gratitude to Ireland.
CHAPTER XII.
THE MAL DE MER.
To think that those worthy French and English people, who only live twenty-one miles from each other, should not be able to exchange visits without first making acquaintance with the mal de mer! To think that this must be the last impression that each one takes home with him!
The mal de mer! That uninteresting complaint which awakes no pity in the breast of man!
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The sky is serene, a light breeze gently fans your cheek, the water in the harbor is as smooth as a sheet of glass. You timidly ask the first sailor you come across a question or two as to the weather and the outlook for the passage—not for your own reassurance, for you are a pretty good sailor, but ... for a friend, or ... for a lady who is traveling with you, and who suffers dreadfully from seasickness. The sly fellow sees through your little ruse, and answers, with a serio-comic look: "The sea, sir! like a lake, sir; like a lake."