I
have been terribly knocked about too,--jolted in Irish cars,
bothered almost to madness with Irish balderdash, above all kept
on dreadfully short allowance of sleep;--so that now first, when
fairly down to rest, all aches and bruises begin to be fairly
sensible; and my clearest feeling at this present is the
uncomfortable one, "that I am not Caliban, but a Cramp":
terribly cramped indeed, if I could tell you everything!
What the other results of this Irish Tour are to be for me I
cannot in the least specify. For one thing, I seem to be farther
from _speech_ on any subject than ever: such masses of chaotic
ruin everywhere fronted me, the general fruit of long-continued
universal falsity and folly; and such mountains of delusion yet
possessing all hearts and tongues I could do little that was not
even _noxious,_ except _admire_ in silence the general
"Bankruptcy of Imposture" as one there finds and sees it come to
pass, and think with infinite sorrow of the tribulations, futile
wrestlings, tumults, and disasters which yet await that
unfortunate section of Adam's Posterity before any real
improvement can take place among them.
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