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P R E FACE.
At the fag-end of this summer, among a motley crowd of Tourists, by the irresistible power of Steam, I was injected
Ι into the island of Ireland, which I had never before seen. For a week, almost without winking, I looked it steadily in the face. For a similar period, in various localities, immured by myself, I was poring over data I deemed it necessary to obtain.
At the expiration of my fortnight's holiday, with notes before me of the little I had seen, heard, and read ; unbiassed by the counsels of any one,
pure retirement, and almost in solitude, for rather more than a month, I alternately ruminated and wrote; and in the words of Mr. Weller's graphic history of his courtship, and of “Sammy's” origin, this Volume, I honestly confess, is the “consekens of the manoover.