“Think of to-morrow!” – that is what few Irish peasants ever do, with a view of providing for it: at least few with whom I have had opportunities of being acquainted. They will think of anything – of everything, but that. There is Larry Moore, for example: – who, that has ever visited my own pastoral village of Bannow, is unacquainted with Larry, the Bannow boatman – the invaluable Larry – who, tipsy or sober, asleep or awake, rows his boat with undeviating power and precision? – He, alas! is a strong proof of the truth of my observation. Look at him on a fine sunny day in June. The cliffs that skirt the shore, where his boat is moored, are crowned with wild furze; while here and there, a tuft of white or yellow broom, sprouting a little above the bluish green of its prickly neighbour, waves its blossoms, and flings its fragrance to the passing breeze. Down to the very edge of the rippling waves is almost one unbroken bed of purple thyme, glowing and beautiful; – and there Larry's goat, with her two sportive kids – sly, cunning rogues! – find rich pasture – now nibbling the broom-blossoms, now sporting amid the furze, and making the scenery re-echo with their musical bleating. The little island opposite, Larry considers his own particular property; not that a single sod of its bright greenery belongs to him – but, to use his own words, “Sure it's all as one my own – don't I see it – don't I walk upon it – and the very water that it's set in is my own; for sorra a one can put foot on it widout me and ‘the coble,’ that have been hand and glove as good as forty years.” But look, I pray you, upon Larry: – there he lies stretched in the sunlight, at full length, on the firm sand, like a man-porpoise – sometimes on his back – then slowly turning on his side – but his most usual attitude is a sort of reclining position against that flat grey stone, just at high-water mark;