now I recall it. I'll crush down my feelings, and be a man again. I'll see the child-angel once more; once more feast my soul over her sweet and exquisite loveliness; once more get a glance from her tender, innocent, and guileless eyes, and then away to South America." "You said your wife took another name." "Yes." "What was it? Do you know it?" "Oh yes; it was Willoughby." "Willoughby!" cried Hawbury, with a start; "why, that's the name of my Ethel's friend, at Montreal. Could it have been the same?" "Pooh, man! How is that possible? Willoughby is not an uncommon name. It's not more likely that your Willoughby and mine are the same than it is that your Ethel is the one I met at Vesuvius. It's only a coincidence, and not a very wonderful one, either." "It seems con-foundedly odd, too," said Hawbury, thoughtfully. "Willoughby? Ethel? Good Lord! But pooh! What rot? As though they could be the same. Preposterous! By Jove!" And Hawbury stroked away the preposterous idea through his long, pendent whiskers. HEN an American goes to Ireland it of the people of Northern Ireland-I went there his own country. He sees the same faces, hears the same voices, notices the same peculiarities, with which he has been familiar from his childhood. Barring the externals, Dublin becomes New York; Cork, Boston; Galway, Cincinnati; and Limerick, St. Louis. He does not find, as he may have expected, the indigenous Irish different from the transplanted article. They have similar virtues, inconsistencies, and short-comings there as here, proving the truth of the old apothegm, "They change their sky, and not their mind, who cross the sea." This is supposing that one enters Erin from the South, which is as unlike the North as France is unlike Spain, or Germany unlike Italy. Most so that in going from Glasgow to Belfast, or from Edinburgh to Londonderry, one hardly perceives he has gotten into another country. The marked Scotch element disappears steadily as you move toward Leinster, and, having passed beyond the line of Dundalk Bay, the character of the inhabitants undergoes a very sensible change. Belfast, though the second city in population (it now has 130,000 souls), is the first in point of trade and manufactures. Situated at the head of a fine bay, with its numerous and extensive linen factories, its considerable commerce, and various branches of industry, it is not strange that the growth of the modern town has been so rapid, and its prosperity so remark out. able. It recalls Manchester and Liverpool, In the neighborhood of the Causeway are two caverns which admit small boats, and recall the famous Grotto of Capri, though they are on a much smaller scale. The roofs bear a striking resemblance to a Gothic aisle, as they form almost a regular pointed arch. The Giant's Gateway and the Giant's Organ, both composed of basaltic columns, are seen behind us for some distance as we leave the Causeway. To the east is Sea-Gull Island, a broad, high rock, which takes its name from an immense number of gulls always upon or about it. I had often wondered on ocean voyages where all the gulls came from; but after visiting that island my wonderment ceased. From the thousands of birds there it must be at once the Mecca and the Eden of those tireless wanderers. The clamor of their cries can be heard at a long distance, and is so confused and varying one might think they were endeavoring to reconcile the irreconcilable differences between the Cath Not far from Sea-Gull Island is the remarkable promontory called the Pleaskin, which many persons, myself among the number, admire more than the Causeway itself. Its jut pearance of a vast rambling castle partially battered down after a fierce and protracted siege. In the vicinity, perched on a bleak and insulated rock, is Dunseverick Castle (a dreary ruin in the midst of an impressive and oppressive solitude), once the seat, I was told, of the powerful and warlike O'Kanes, a very distinguished family, whose descendants on both sides of the Atlantic seem to be unlimited. The basaltic island of Rathlin, six miles to seaward, is crowned with the ruins of a castle in which Robert Bruce is said to have taken refuge after his flight from Scotland nearly six centuries ago. Being in the North of Ireland, we very naturally go, either by water or by land, to the Giant's Causeway, with which our first geog-ting rocks and picturesque cliffs give it the apraphy made us familiar. Like most things from which we have large expectations, it proves a disappointment. I set it down as one of the shams of travel along with the catacombs of Rome, the glories of the Rhine, the beauty of the Unter den Linden, the charm of Holyrood Palace, and the perfect cleanliness of Holland. It is totally unlike what I had anticipated. Any one sailing along the coast would fail to be struck by the so-called great natural curiosity, and if of a skeptical turn, would with difficulty be made to believe it what he had so often heard of. It is a rocky mole of columnar basalt, seven hundred feet long, but greatly varying in breadth and elevation, rising sometimes to a height of two hundred and fifty feet. It separates two little bays, called Port Ganniary and Port Noffer, formed by the windings of the coast. The curious three-pillared formation, known as the Chimney-tops, looks so much like turrets that it is not strange one of the ships of the Spanish Armada, as is said, battered it with shot for some time under the delusion that it was Dunluce Castle. The impression the Causeway gave me was that of a large pier or mole either in ruins or unfinished. It consists, indeed, of three piers projecting from the base of the cliff. The pillars, which are of a dark color, stand so close together that they seem to be united; and with their six, eight, and nine sides, bear every appearance of having been hewn out by human skill. It is not strange the tradition arose among the natives that the ancient giants once began to build a causeway across the channel, and were only prevented from completing the work by the irresistible valor of the Irish heroes, of whom this country has always been so prolific. VOL. XLII.-No. 250.-32 Passing Horseshoe Harbor we see in succession the peculiar-shaped rocks known as the Lion's Head, Bengore Head, the Twins, Four Sisters, the Giant's Pulpit, and the Giant's Granny-the last of which, to an active fancy, readily assumes the shape of an old woman in stone. The road from the Causeway to Ballycastle passes a chasm sixty or seventy feet wide, separating the little rocky island of Carrick-a-Rede from the main land. Over this cavern, more than a hundred feet above the sea, is a footbridge formed of two cables about four feet apart to which rude planks are lashed, with hand-ropes at the side. I have known nervous persons to avoid making the passage of this bridge, so slight and insecure does it seem, particularly when the wind, very apt to blow thereabouts in violent gusts, sways the rude structure irregularly and even violently. There is really no danger, however, as I found by experience, and as I might have learned by observing the fishermen and peasants of the neighborhood, who cross and recross at all hours of the day and night, whatever the weather, often bearing burdens much larger and heavier than them- | Cid" and the "Adventures of Amadis of Gaul" selves. Near Ballycastle are the ruins of a fortress built by M'Donnell of Dunluce, as the tradition runs, more than two centuries ago. The fortress is on the summit of a high, rocky promontory overlooking the sea, and must have been very strong both for offensive and defensive purposes in the wild and warlike days when it obtained its renown. All the north coast is grand, gloomy, and picturesque, abounding in beetling promontories, rugged cliffs, and rocky bays, which would furnish excellent means of escape for smugglers or pirates who understood the peculiarities of this dangerous coast. The village of Cushendall, a few miles south of Tor Head, tradition reports to be the birthplace of Ossian, upon whose actual existence many of the Irish insist, and show exceeding impatience and irritability toward any one who undertakes to prove to them historically and logically that the great Gaelic Homer, as they style him, was purely a creation of M'Pherson. In the North no less than in the South of Ireland I saw ruins of tombs and castles and churches that were associated with the names of famous heroes and warriors and saints I had never heard of. I was frequently told that I should make myself better acquainted with Irish history-something I have been trying to do for many years. The few histories of that peculiar country that I have found were so much like a combination of the "Chronicles of the that I could not distinguish facts or truths in such a twilight of fiction. I am afraid, too, that I lack the faith and enthusiasm necessary to a proper interpretation of the multitudinous legends with which the land is saturated. If any one wishes to know how hopelessly ignorant he is of many of the most extraordinary characters and events in the world, he should go to Ireland. Londonderry, or Derry, as it is called over there, disappointed me, as it disappoints most persons, by reason of its activity and advancement. I had expected to find it an old and long-ago finished town, into which the spirit of progress had not entered. I supposed it something like Chester or Carlisle in England-interesting from its past history rather than from any relation it bore to the present or the future. I had quite forgotten its modern growth, and thought only of the old town within the walls which withstood the memorable siege of the forces of James II. Of late years it has improved very rapidly, the present population being little less than thirty thousand. Though a small place at the time of the famous siege, the then residents of Derry must have been extremely prolific-a natural inference from the fact that their descendants are to be found almost every where, and in particular abundance in our own country. In any of the States, North, South, East, or West, I have hardly met any one of Scotch-Irish extraction who has not told me some of his ancestors fought and displayed great The episcopal palace stands where the old abbey is presumed to have been. The long narrow bridge over the Foyle, on the same plan as the bridges at Waterford and Wexford, is the work of an American architect named Cox, who also constructed the others. The scenery about Derry is pleasant enough, though not impressive. The Vale of Faughan makes pretensions to pictorial beauty, but the hills that form it are bleak, and the river flowing through it has little to awaken admiration. Going south you pass through Drogheda, an ancient city with numerous ruins, more interesting to the professional antiquary than to the poco-curante traveler. It boasts of the remains of an Augustinian priory-founded by Saint Patrick, of course-a Carmelite convent of the reign of Edward I., a graceful tower of a Dominican abbey, and various ecclesiastic remains covered with ivy, tradition, and superstition. heroism at Londonderry. I forget the number | run at right angles toward the ancient gates. of casualties on the side of the defenders; but they must have been few, inasmuch as so many survivors seem to have given their time and energy to the benefit of posterity. Derry's situation on a steep hill, not unlike that of Lisbon, is striking and picturesque from the right bank of the river (Foyle), though its abrupt ascents make riding tedious, and walking an exercise too energetic for quiet enjoyment. There, as every where else in Ireland, I heard a great deal of the antiquity of the town, an Augustinian abbey having been founded on the summit of the hill more than twelve centuries ago by a saintly architect called Columba. In the sixteenth century Derry was made a military station; but a terrific explosion of gunpowder destroyed both the fort and the town, and nearly every body in them, and so filled the vicinity with horror that it was completely abandoned for more than forty years. Derry had just begun to prosper in a rehabilitated state when one of those amiable and apocryphal gentlemen for whom that region has been remarkable-he was of the fertile O'Doherty family took possession of the fortifications and the town, reduced them to ashes, and butchered both the soldiers and the inhabitants, lest history might do him wrong by charging him with an ungenerous discrimination. The old walls of Derry still remain, and like those of York have been converted into a promenade. The gates, destroyed at the siege of 1689, have been rebuilt, and that on the site of the one from which the heroic garrison made its first sortie is a triumphal arch in commemoration of the event, and bears the name of the Bishop's Gate. A Doric column, surmounted by a statue of the Rev. George Walker, celebrated for his defense of the town at the time of the siege, was erected in 1828, at a cost of £4200. In the centre of the city is the Diamond, a square from which the principal streets I was urged to visit what were asserted to be the magnificent ruins at Mellifont and Monasterboise, but I unhesitatingly declined. There are throughout the country so many WALKER'S PILLAR, LONDONDERRY. crumbling priories, shattered abbeys, mouldy round towers, each having its long and tedious story of stereotyped saints and wonderful warriors, all of whom seem to have been native kings, that I confess I grew rather weary of them. My memory of all I heard in and about Drogheda is somewhat confused; but if I remember rightly, it was something of a town before Damascus was dreamed of. Antiquity, I repeat, is a striking peculiarity of every place in Ireland, which is represented to have been great and glorious before any other region was known. So overwhelmingly in love are the Hibernians with their country that I fancy in their secret hearts they believe it had an immortal history before the external and rather superfluous entity known as the Earth was created. It sounds like a jest, but I have actually been told by sons of the soil that greater poems than the "Iliad" or "Odyssey" were sung in the streets of their forgotten cities long before the era supposed to have given birth to Homer. The Drogheda of to-day is wedded to fact and prose. It has numerous manufactories, and not a few tanneries, breweries, distilleries, and soap-works, the aroma from the last of which is neither classic nor salubrious. I was persuaded to make an excursion to the battle-ground where William III. and the dethroned monarch James settled their dispute. A very voluble person gave me a glowing description of the fight, which differed materially from the historic accounts I had read. I understood him to say he was there himself; but as the battle was fought in 1690, and as he did not look to be more than one hundred and forty years old, I suppose that I failed to comprehend his dialect. One thing, however, I recall distinctly-that of all the English, Dutch, Flemish, French, Scotch, and Irish soldiers who were present, the Irish did all the hard, indeed, the only creditable fighting. James was beaten, somehow, but it was because he failed to take the counsel of his Celtic adherents. At least I was so informed by my cicerone, and I felt unwilling to doubt the authority of an individual so supernaturally learned. To those interested in localities associated with eminent men it may be worth while to visit Dangan Castle, near Trim, the early home and, as many assert, the birth-place of Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington. The Irish feel great satisfaction in claiming Wellington, and not infrequently say that if it had not been for one of their countrymen Napoleon Bonaparte would have obliterated England from the map of Europe. The castle is a massive, inharmonious, gloomy structure, and the bedroom reputed to have been occupied by the Duke is cheerless and dreary enough to have given him the nightmare. There was nothing interesting or lovable in his character; he was simply strong, stubborn, and dutiful; and if he remained very long in that old pile, it would not be strange if some of its coldness and its shadow crept into his inflexible soul. If I had not understood the enthusiasm of the Milesian mind, and the radiant colors with which it invests all it loves, I should have expected to find in Dublin a city of wondrous splendor and inexpressible charm. How often have I listened to eulogies of the Irish capital from the lips of its rhetorical sons and daughters, until, taking counsel of my fancy instead of my reason, it shone upon me from afar like a divine dwellingplace, whither weary and beauty-starved souls might be permitted, as a recompense for sufferings past, to journey and be blessed! It is almost superfluous to state that any such dazzling preconceptions failed to be realized on the banks of the Liffey. The great thoroughfare, Sackville Street, is broad but not imposing, owing to an architectural lack of correspondence with what must have been its original plan of laying out. Though Dublin is neither a commercial nor a manufacturing city, its buildings have that worn and dingy look which marks towns entirely given over to trade. The Liffey (its full name is Anna Liffey) divides the city into nearly equal parts, is spanned by eight homely bridges, and is little more inviting or fragrant than a Dutch canal. At low tide the river reveals the same lamentable lack of water that distinguishes the Arno in summer, and during the warm months affects the atmosphere in a way that but faintly recalls the orange groves of Sicily or the rose gardens of Cashmere. Sackville Street, which is quite short, will appear to more advantage when the Carlisle Bridge, connecting it with Westmoreland Street, is replaced with a new and finer one, and such improvements are made as will render Grafton, Westmoreland, and Sackville a uniform and continuous thoroughfare. Unfortunately Dublin has very little of the spirit of public enterprise, which grows out of material prosperity and faith in the future. One hears complaints every where of mercantile dullness and commercial stagnation, and there seems no hope of a change for the better. The capital grows, it |