a common saw over there that an Irishman has the privilege of speaking twice; and I can see the justice of it. He first makes a blunder, as if by design, and then renders the blunder bright by illuminating it with a joke. I remember a colloquy like this in Sackville Street between an English tourist and a cardriver: "I say, Pat, what are those figures up there?" "An' shure, yer honor, thim's the twilve apos'les." "Twelve apostles, indeed! Why, there are only four." "Och now, ye wouldn't have thim all out at once, would ye? That's the posht-office, and the rist is inside, yer honor, sortin' letthers." Driving through County Wicklow, and commenting on what seemed to be the irregularity of the mile-stones, my carman remarked: Annoyed by a strapping girl, who insisted on acting as guide at the Gap of Dunloe, I gave her a shilling on condition that she would follow me no further. Before I had gone another mile she reappeared, when I reminded her of her promise. "Will," she replied, "I losht the shillin' that ye was so goohd as to give a poor gurl the likes o' me; and I thought I'd come back to see if ye hadn't just found it." Of course I handed her another, with the words, "You know, Norah, you are not telling the truth, but this time you must keep your word." "An' will ye make a poor gurl who's losht her heart to ye confess in yer virry face that she's run two miles over dese rough rocks to git anuther look at yer han'som' eyes ?" A porter at a Galway hotel had with much trouble prevented an American's trunk from going to Belfast instead of Queenstown, and the owner rewarded him with a sovereign. The shrewd fellow held the. coin rapturously in his hand a few moments, and then said to the gen "Be gorrah, an' they're not mile-stones at all at all. This is a grave-yaird of the Miles family, an' there was so miny of thim, ye see, they hadn't names for thim all, an' so they numbered thim, an' buried thim wheriver they could find a good shpot." And his eye twink-tleman, "Haven't ye a bit o' shilver about ye? lingly inquired if the conceit were not good enough for a drink of whisky at the first halting-place. Giving a bar-maid a crown at Limerick for a mug of ale, the price of which was but threepence, she smiled all over her face, and said: "An' may yer worship niver wahnt for a pound until I give ye the change; and I wish ye sich luck that I know ye wouldn't be afther askin' for a pinny of it." Ye wouldn't have me shpendin' the likes of this bayutiful gould to drink yer health wid? Give me a shillin', yer honor, and I'll kape this to remimber ye by." In the Valley of Glendalough a native, peering out from one of the ruins of the tiny Seven Churches, accosted a guide with, "Dinnis, did ye come here thinkin' they was sayin' mass this mornin'?" "I might have belaved so, ye spalpeen, if I hadn't sane the divil lookin' out of the windy." "What makes your horse so slow?" I asked one day in the Glen of the Downs of my Celtic Jehu. "It's out of respict to the bayutiful sanery, yer honor; he wants ye to see it all. An' thin he's an intilligent baste, and appraciates good company, an' wants to kape the likes o' ye in beloved ould Ireland as long as he kin." Experience taught me that if I made complaint it was altogether useless to try to get an answer unflavored with what the natives term "deludherin' blarney." Such fulsome and transparent flattery as the Irish persist in pouring out upon you soon grows extremely irksome, and none the less so when you know it is expected every honeyed falsehood will be paid for in proportion to its sweetening. A visit to Ireland is considered incomplete unless the visitor take at least a run through County Wicklow, called the Switzerland of Ireland. Wicklow is lauded to the extreme of hyperbole from Belfast to Cork, and its praises are sounded far and wide in England. Americans who put trust in the highly colored accounts that may be given them will fail to realize their expectations. The English, whose country is little more than a highly cultivated cabbage-garden, think any land superior to their own in variety or picturesqueness wonderful to behold. So they rave about Wales and Scot land and Ireland, when travelers of experience lagh Wood, part of the estate of the Earl of find them somewhat tame. They who are ac- Fitzwilliam, which furnishes the national weapquainted with Italy and Switzerland will be apt on the Green Islander is so enamored of. It to underrate Ireland, because it is revealed to is the Irishman's logic-he calls its use an arguthem after much finer and grander scenery has ment with sticks-and he applies it alike to his become familiar. Wicklow should not be named friends and his foes. "Arrah, now," said a in the same year with the Zermatt Valley or the sturdy fellow to me, we had a daliteful toime Bernese Oberland. doon in the glin yonder. We all had our sthicks wid us, and, be gorrah, I knocked down six of my frinds in less than a minute. It was foine fun, yer honor, and ye'd a bin glahd to be theer." Strange as it may seem to the descendants of Irish kings, I did not regret my absence; for I have that anti-Hibernian idiosyncrasy which makes pleasure possible without the introduction of a cudgel or a broken crown. The Scalp is an attractive rocky defile, originating no doubt in some convulsion of nature; and the Dargle, a popular place of resort, especially for picnic parties, presents many inducements for ramble and rest. The river rushing through the rocky defile makes welcome music in the summer, and the ever-green oaks, very abundant there, give grateful shade. Bray is an agreeable sojourning place, and is liberally patronized by the Dublinites. Two or three good hotels are there, the largest of which was built by an Irishman who came to this country and made a fortune in a few years. Returning home, he was so affected by his prosperity that he laid siege to a distillery in the neighborhood, and was compelled to raise the siege on account of a summons to attend his own funeral. One or two waterfalls that give variety to the neighborhood of Bray lack nothing but water to render them attractive. The Devil's Glen, near Newrath, is about a mile in length, and traversed by the river Vartry, which sparkles and foams over the rocks in a mildly romantic manner. In the Valley of Glendalough, whose surrounding mountains are precipitous and peculiar in shape, resembling huge rocks, are the Seven Churches, called the Cathedral, the Abbey, Trinity, Our Lady's, the Rhefeart, and Teampule-na-Skillig, curious as specimens of early ecclesiastic architecture. Glendalough looks like fine landscape seen through an inverted telescope, so small and dainty is it. The valley must originally have been tenanted by fairies of the Pease-blossom and Mustard-seed pattern, for no congregations composed of beings of a larger stature could have crowded into the tiny churches. One average well-fed Englishman would fill all the space the Cathedral could ever have contained, and any modern belle who desired to attend service in Trinity would have The Vale of Avoca, which Moore's verse has been obliged to leave much of her raiment outmade famous, has not the beauty the poet paint-side. ed. The renowned Meeting of the Waters, or rather Meetings of the Waters, for there are two, Moore also sang into reputation. The proper one is formed by the confluence of two rivers, the Avonbeg and the Avonmore, in a pleasant valley guarded by handsome hills. The exact spot where Moore wrote his lyric is marked by a slab and a group of evergreens. Sentimental eyes have moistened over the slab, and sensitive beings have throbbed with romantic emotions at the thought of the real presence of the Meeting of the Waters, whether they stood before one or the other of the aqueous conventions. There was a fierce contention as to which of the locations the bard intended to celebrate, until he, in a gush of candor, admitted he did not know himself, and that he composed his poem in a library miles away from the scenes that suggested his subject. It is unkind to dash sentiment in this way; but persons who, in Mr. Swiveller's rhetoric, insist on dropping the briny at Tasso's prison and Juliet's tomb, in Ferrara and Verona, when the bard never saw the former, and the latter is known to have been a horse-trough, must be set right for the vindication of history, and in defense of the lachrymal ducts. Many bits of unknown scenery on this side of the Atlantic are far superior to the Vale of Avoca, or the "exquisitely beautiful Avondale." Not far from Aughrim is the far-famed Shille The two lakes are pretty pools, belonging to such wild and stormy bodies of water as are seen in the Central Park. In the steep, craggy face of the mountain, some thirty feet above the lake, is a small cave known as Saint Kevin's Bed. Saint Kevin, it seems, was an anchorite of such ferocious pudicity that he hurled the beautiful Kathleen, who came to keep him company, into the lake below-a story that needs confirmation, and which women potently disbelieve. Some seven miles from Rathdrum is Glenmalure, a wild pass, so quiet and solitary that, if divorced from society and wedded to nature, I might be glad to dwell there. Several cascades are scattered through the vicinity, the most noticeable of which is Phoula-phouca, formed by the fall of the Liffey after passing through the Glen of Kippure. The waters glide in stillness to the verge of the fall, and then plunge by a series of cataracts-always provided the river is in proper condition-into the gulf below. This is one of the most famous cascades in Ireland; but it bears no more comparison to the Giessbach in Switzerland than the Passaic Falls to Niagara. Persons wishing quietude and gentle sensations can find them in Wicklow; but they should seek them there before making acquaintance with the Continent. Taking the Midland Great Western Railway to Galway one passes through an interesting region of country. He has a good view of the ivy-mantled towers of Leixlip Castle, and can, if he choose, stop to look at the Salmon Leap in the Liffey. Maynooth, with its college and castle, the ruined walls of Castle Carbury, and the hill of Carbury, the scene of numerous encounters between the Irish and Anglo-Normans, are also on the route. Pagan remains, as they are christened, and decayed villages are scattered along the line. Ballinasloe, remarkable for its great cattle-fairs, and attended by people from all parts of Europe, is one of the stations. The mountains of Connemara are visible from the railway, with the asual proportion of demolished castles and obsolete abbeys. At last one reaches Galway, the capital of the West, and, in point of population (it has some 20,000), the fifth city in Ireland. A few years ago it was supposed that Galway would become an important commercial point; but the failure of the Lever line of steam-packets, running between there and New York, destroyed all hope of its commercial consequence. It is insisted that it is the nearest point to the American coast; that it has superior advantages to any port in Great Britain; and the withdrawal of the steamers is ascribed by the Irish, as are most of their misfortunes, to British prejudice and British gold. Galway had an active commerce, chiefly with Spain, until the middle of the seventeenth century, and so great was the intercommunication between the two nations that traces of Spanish blood, costume, and architecture are still visible in the declining town. The wide entries, broad staircases, and arched gateways often recalled Cadiz, Malaga, and Seville; and the sculptured and grotesque adornments on the outside of the buildings had the Moorish aspect that I remember in Valencia and Granada. Lynch's Castle -the large warehouse in Shop Street is so denominated-looks decidedly Spanish with its front of quaint and curious carvings, and might have been transported from the ancient quarters of Antwerp. Many of the inhabitants, particularly the women of the lower order, have the dark eyes, dark hair, and dark complexion that belong to the more southern races, leaving little room to doubt that the Celtic blood of Hispania and Hibernia now flows in the same veins. That like seeks like is said to have been very frequently shown, nearly two centuries ago, by the mutual attraction existing between the Spanish merchants and the Irish women. In some instances I saw the black eyes and golden hair which Titian, Correggio, and Guido so loved to paint, and which was regarded in their time as the ideal type especially of Venetian beauty. The Galway women I encountered were of the humbler classes; and, though not without a kind of coarse comeliness, did not suggest the pictures of the Academy or the Ducal Palace. Their garments were rather southern, both in scantiness and color. They are very fond of red petticoats, descending to a few inches above the ankle, and of wearing black and blue cloaks, which they throw over the head, as if they had an instinct to imitate the mantilla. Shoes and stockings are unattainable luxuries with them, and as they are not fanatical in respect to personal tidiness, they lose some of the picturesque effects they might have if made immaculate and transferred to canvas. The Claddagh, the fishers' quarter near the harbor, is one of the attractions of Galway. The people inhabiting and called after the quarter are curious and peculiar in all respects. Like the denizens of New Haven near Edinburgh, the natives of the Basque provinces in Spain, and the gipsies every where, they preserve their own customs and individuality, and very rarely intermarry with any other people. Without education, or any of the refinements of modern life, they are far less turbulent and refractory than the natives of Connaught generally. They have an elected chief, whom they call king, and to him they refer all differences and disputes, so that they are enabled to get along without the dissentions assistance of lawyers. Personal quarrels and collisions are said to be almost unknown among the Claddagh, and this is strong presumptive evidence that they are a separate race from the Irish. Fairs in Ireland are not what they once were. The palmy days of Donnybrook, with its head-breaking and general "shindies," have departed, and seem to be regarded by a large part of the peasantry of Munster and Leinster as the surest indications of the national decay. The people as they really are are still seen to the best advantage at the county fairs, which are the gala days of the commonalty. The | mens we see here that beauty was given in any greatest interest is taken in them. Every body dangerous degree to the daughters of Erin; goes to the fairs; and it is not unusual for the but among the cultivated and better classes in peasantry to walk twenty-five or thirty miles Leinster and Connaught many of the women for the pleasure of being present. They meet have a delicacy and regularity of feature that there their friends and acquaintances, many make good their claim to personal loveliness. of whom they see nowhere else; so that a fair | Not a few of the Irish of the opposite sex look is a democratic reunion of all persons who have like Italians or Spaniards; but the finest type any thing in common. The high animal spir- has large gray or light hazel eyes, brown hair, its of the Irish are strikingly revealed at these rather pale complexions, oval faces, and lithe annual gatherings. They chat and laugh, figures, with a grace and vivacity of manner. dance and drink, make love and make merry, which, to my mind, are more American than not omitting a little fighting, of course for the foreign. sake of variety, with the most restless and perfect abandon. An Irish peasant, with a shilling in his pocket, and two or three drinks under his jacket, smoking a pipe before the booth of a fair, seems to be the lightest - hearted,ness of heart as something not to be forgotten. most devil-may-care creature on the planet. Poor Lola Montez was a native of Limerick, with a dash of Spanish blood, it is said. Persons still living in that city say they remember her girlhood, and speak of her beauty and kind The common way of seeing Ireland is to land at Queenstown, dash by Cork to the Lakes, spend a day there, and then whirl through Munster and Leinster to Dublin; and, after a few glimpses at the capital, cross the Irish Sea for London. Either this or reversing the route, and taking ship at Queenstown, bound home. The Lakes of Killarney are the central atFrom Galway to Limerick is a short ride. traction of Ireland. No one would think of Limerick, with its 55,000 souls, ranks as the setting foot on the Green Isle without "doing" fourth Irish city in population and importance, the Lakes. They are to that country, in reand has of late years improved materially.spect of interest, what Paris is to France, or King John's Castle, built by that monarch as Rome to Italy. a defense against the Irish, has seven massive towers connected by walls of immense thickness, and bears traces of the hard sieges it has sustained. The Cathedral is noted for its sweet-toned peal of bells, of which a story is told The bells were cast by an Italian, and placed in the campanile of a convent in Florence. He had put his heart into his work, and believed his bells the most melodious in the world. During the wars between Francis I. and Charles V. he lost all his sons, and his wife soon after dying from excess of grief, the Italian went to Mantua, and during his absence the bells were carried off. When he returned and found them gone he was heart-broken, for they were then his only consolation. He determined to wander over the earth until he recovered them; and so, staff in hand, he set out upon his almost hopeless pilgrimage. One summer day after sunset, in 1559, as the tale is told, a gray-haired man was seen in a boat on the Shannon. Listless and despondent, he took no notice of any thing until the bells of the Cathedral pealed out on the soft evening air. He was young again. He recognized his long-lost and long-sought bells; and lifting his hands in gratitude to Heaven, his soul went forth with a prayer on his lips. Limerick, as every one knows, is famous for its lace-a fact every stranger discovers from the constant importunities to buy, whether in or out of doors. It is cheap, but being made of cotton, it is not liked in this country, and bears no comparison to the delicate linen fabrics of France and Belgium. They say there that it has often been exported, returned from Mechlin, and sold at four times the price it originally cost at home-a good but highly improbable story. Limerick enjoys with Dublin the reputation of having the prettiest women in Ireland. would not be supposed from most of the speci It Three days at least are needed to visit the Lakes properly, and five or six may be well spent upon them. If you have made your virgin journey abroad intending to make a regular tour, go to Killarney first, or, at least, before you go over to the Continent. The Irish lakes are finer than the Scotch, and immeasurably superior to the English; but after you have become acquainted with the lakes of Northern Italy and Switzerland, the beautiful bodies of water in County Kerry will be much less than your fancy has imaged them. There are three lakes of Killarney-the Upper, Middle, and Lower, though the second is rarely counted or regarded as distinct from the Lower. Familiarity with Como, Maggiore, Geneva, Lucerne, Thun, Brienz, Zurich, and the other Continental lakes dampened any enthusiasm I might have had for those of Kerry. Still I did every thing that was to be done in and about them as faithfully as if I had never seen a bit of water larger than a duck-pond. I even ascended Mangerton, Torc, and Carran-tual, the last 3414 feet, being the loftiest mountain in Ireland, because it was one of the things laid down. But having long before measured all such sensations in Switzerland, and exhausted them by climbing Mont Blanc, the Hibernian hillocks raised no tumult in my breast. I visited the ruins of Aghadoe-the usual round tower, the cathedral, and castle (hardly worth looking at), and a cave near the entrance of the gap, declared to be of great interest to archæologists. As I felt no interest in it, and as archæology is not one of my weak The Upper Lake, though the smallest, is considered by many the most beautiful, because it is nearer to the mountains than the others, and more studded with islands. A circuitous channel connecting the Upper and Middle lakes is known as the Long Range, and is bordered by some very fine scenery. At the entrance is Coleman's Eye, a singular and picturesque nesses, I presume the statement may be true. The roof of the cave is formed of large stones inscribed with what are called the Ogham characters. They looked to me a good deal like a map of Boston; so that when I was informed they were the written language of the Druids, I had no more doubt of the fact than I had of most things told me in Ireland. Near by is a solitary hostelry kept by a putative grand-promontory, and further on a perpendicular cliff daughter of the apocryphal Kate Kearney. Kate is reputed to have been extremely lovely; but if she were lovely, if she ever existed, and if the young woman I saw was her daughter's daughter, the young woman is a most striking illustration of the theory that beauty is not hereditary. The Gap of Dunloe is a narrow gap between MacGillicuddy Reeks and the Toomies and Purple Mountain. On each side craggy cliffs, composed of large projecting rocks, frown over the narrow pathway, as if angry at human intrusion into that wild solitude. In the interstices of the rocks grow a few melancholy shrubs, which, with the dark ivy and luxuriant heather thereabout, add to the effect of the landscape. A small, swift stream, the Loe, runs the whole length of the glen, expanding at different points into pools dignified by the name of lakes. The glen is so contracted in one place that the precipitous sides almost shut off the narrow pathway. Just beyond the gap is the Black Valley, so called from the shadows thrown across it by the Reeks, and the color given by the peat to the lakes which dot it. called the Eagle's Nest, so remarkable for its echoes that some of the guides insist that when you cry out "How do you do?" the echo responds, "Very well, I thank you, and won't you take a drop of whisky?" The Nest made no such reply to me, owing probably to the fact that I had no partiality for the fiery liquid the natives are so fond of. About a mile beyond is the Old Weir Bridge, an ancient stone structure with two arches, through which the boats are swiftly carried without use of the oars. Below the bridge is a sequestered and charming spot, called the Meeting of the Waters (whether named from Wicklow or not I can not say), which Walter Scott praised highly. The Middle, sometimes called Torc Lake, is divided from the Lower by Dinish and Brickeen islands, and connected with it by three narrow channels. It lacks the wildness of the Upper and the picturesqueness of the Lower Lake; but its shores are magnificently wooded, and toward sunset to row through it is delightful. The Lower Lake, five miles long (the whole length of the lakes is about eleven miles) |