As he approached Galway, the rural population were found to be in a more miserable condition:  “Some of the women and children that we saw on the road were abject cases of poverty and almost naked.  The few rags they had on were with the greatest difficulty held together, and in a few weeks, as they are utterly unable to provide themselves with fresh clothes unless they be given them, they must become absolutely naked.”  And in another district:  “As we went along our wonder was not that the people died, but that they lived; and I have no doubt whatever that in any other country the mortality would have been far greater; that many lives have been prolonged, perhaps saved, by the long apprenticeship to want in which the Irish peasant has been trained, and by that lovely, touching charity which prompts him to share his scanty meal with his starving neighbor.”

The fishermen of the Cladagh, who were induced to send the Whig Attorney-General to Parliament a few months before, had to pledge the implements of their calling for a little daily bread.  “Even the very nets and tackle of these poor fishermen, I heard, were pawned, and, unless they be assisted to redeem them, they will be unable to take advantage of the herring shoals, even when they approach their coast.  In order to ascertain the truth of this statement, I went into two or three of the largest pawnshops, the owners of which fully confirmed it and said they had in pledge at least a thousand pounds’ worth of such property and saw no likelihood of its being redeemed.”

In a rural district which he revisited after an interval, he paints a scene which can scarcely be matched in the annals of a mediaeval plague:  “One poor woman whose cabin I visited said, ’There will be nothing for us but to lie down and die.’  I tried to give her hope of English aid, but alas! her prophecy has been too true.  Out of a population of two hundred forty I found thirteen already dead from want.  The survivors were like walking skeletons; the men gaunt and haggard, stamped with the livid mark of hunger; the children crying with pain; the women in some of the cabins too weak to stand.  When there before I had seen cows at almost every cabin, and there were besides many sheep and pigs owned in the village.  But now all the sheep were gone, all the cows, all the poultry killed, only one pig left; the very dogs which had barked at me before had disappeared; no potatoes; no oats.”

The young man pointed the moral, which these horrible spectacles suggested, with laudable courage:  “I would not now discuss the causes of this condition, nor attempt to apportion blame to its authors; but of this one fact there can be no question:  that the result of our social system is that vast numbers of our fellow-countrymen—­of the peasantry of one of the richest nations the world ever knew—­have not leave to live.  Surely such a social result as this is not only a national misfortune but a national sin crying loudly to every Christian citizen to do his utmost to remove it.  No one of us can have a right to enjoy either riches or repose until to the extent of his ability he strive to wash himself of all share in the guilt of this fearful inequality, which will be a blot in the history of our country and make her a byword among the nations.”