legions of water-fowl who seem to be fearless under their emerald canopies. Scott, it is said, had no word. of praise for these Lakes and Mountains, he was thinking of Loch Lomond and Loch Awe. But when he was here he exclaimed, "This is worth coming to see!" or West, will show her ships and sails through the vistas of the forest, as they seek their retreat by the shore of the broad lake. They shall dine on the venison of the hills, the trout of the lake, and the honey of the hollow oak. Their couch shall be the purple-blossomed heath, the soft moss of the rock, or the green The sun is westering as we enter the Torc Lake. rushes strewn with creamy agrimony, and the early call of the heath-cock alone shall break their slumber We are in the most profound solitude. Scarcely a breath of wind creeps over the waters. We gaze in of love." We go coasting round the Lake; we see silence on the noble mountain from which the lake the distant Torc Waterfall-a pencil of light; we listen derives its name; when the mellow notes of Spillane's to other songs and other bugle-notes; and, steered bugle for the first time soothe and gladden us. Over into one of the caverns of the rock, learn that we are the water floats the tender air of Eileen a Roon' in O'Donaghue's wine-cellar,-a fitting place for one the gem of Irish music five centuries ago-plagiarized cup of kindness" with old and new friends. And into 'Robin Adair' in Scotland-naturalized in France, now for a long pull homeward. by Boieldieu. Ever and anon a slight echo returns some emphatic note. And then, with a natural courtesy, one of our boatmen sings an Irish air at our request: it was a pastoral song, wild and melancholy. A writer of taste, Mr. Edward Walsh, has translated many of these popular ballads, which appear to have been chiefly produced in the last century. Many of their favourite images seem to be derived from the scenery of these regions: "The enamoured poet will lead his love over the green-topped hills of the South 66 A brilliant morning! Away with the libellers of Killarney-the praters about perpetual showers! Could it be the Irish LOVER who wrote these vile unpatriotic lines on his country's climate? "The rain comes down The leaves to drown, I was but a fish, What a glorious place to enjoy it. "No light is on Old Mangerton, And Torc I cannot make out, sir; What need to roam, When, nearer home, You've a fine cascade from the spout, sir?" At any rate we are lucky. Here is a glorious morning for a ride through the Gap of Dunloe, and the boat to meet us at the head of the Upper Lake. The road which leads along the northern bank of the Lower Lake, till it falls into the Laune river, is a quiet and picturesque road, with few traces of extreme poverty. The little fields are well cultivated, and the wretched hovel is seldom seen. We reach the Laune Bridge; below us is a rapid stream, very tempting to the angler; before us the Gap opens its ponderous jaws. Through a wild and boggy country we gradually ascend a mountain road. We have to pass round the shoulder of a rock, and at the angle stands a tidy woman, waiting for the travellers, with her jug of goats'-milk. We turn the rock, and ascend the Gap: "The abrupt mountain breaks, And seems, with its accumulated crags, It is curious how tourists differ in their estimation of particular scenes. Inglis says, "The Gap of Dunloe did not seem to me to be worthy of its reputation: it is merely a deep valley; but the rocks which flank the valley are neither very lofty, nor very remarkable in their form; and although, therefore, the Gap presents many features of the picturesque, its approaches to sublimity are very distant." Mrs. Hall calls it, "a scene rarely paralleled for wild grandeur and stern magnificence; the singular character of the deep ravine would seem to confirm the popular tradition that it was produced by a stroke of the sword of one of the giants of old, which divided the mountains, and left them apart for ever. Its deep gloom oppresses the spirits with exceeding melancholy." These wide differences of opinion probably proceed from the different aspects under which a scene is viewed, and the varying moods of mind produced by those varying aspects. What is beautiful in the noonday sun is solemn in the misty evening. We passed through this chasm in a bright July morning; the Loe was rushing down its rocky bed; on the right the Reeks lifted up their heads to the blue sky, even the topmost peak; on the left, the Purple Mountain blushed in the glowing light. We halted at a spot where Spillane vanished into a deep dell, and then rose such a wild bugle strain, repeated in the most delicious softness by the rocks around, that the whole scene was one of enchantment. We thought of Shelley's noble translation of Faust, in which the images of beauty and sublimity are so gloriously mingled: "But see, how swift advance and shift Trees behind trees, row by row,— The giant-snouted crags, ho! ho! There is a charming description in The Collegians' of the view looking down the Gap, from the Purple Mountain. We would rather trust it than our own rapid impressions:-"Although the day was fine, and sometimes cheered with sunshine near the base of the mountain, its summit was wrapped in mist, and wet with incessant showers. The scenery around was solitary, gigantic, and sternly barren. The figure of some wonder-hunting tourist, with a guide-boy bearing his portfolio and umbrella, appeared at long intervals, among the lesser undulations of the mountain side; and the long road which traversed the gloomy valley dwindled to the width of a meadow foot-path. On the opposite side of the enormous ravine, the gray and misty Reeks still raised their crumbling summits far above him. Masses of white mist gathered in sullen congress between their peaks, and, sometimes floating upward in large volumes, were borne majestically onward, catching a thousand tints of gold and purple from the declining sun. Sometimes a trailing shower, of mingled mist and rain, would sweep across the intervening chasm, like the sheeted spectre of a giant, and present to the eye of the spectator that appearance which supplied the imagination of Ossian with its romantic images. The mighty gorge itself, at one end, appeared to be lost and divided amid a host of mountains tossed together in provoking gloom and misery. Lower down, it opened upon a wide and cultivated champaign, which, at this altitude, presented the resemblance of a rich mosaic of a thousand colours, and afforded a bright contrast to the barren and shrubless gloom of the solitary vale itself." Echoes again! but not the echoes of music. There is a poor man with a cannon, who produces mimic thunder at a shilling a shot. The report goes brattling and ringing up the mountain sides in varied tones. We ride on till we cross the lonely bridge over the Loe, and ascend to the extremity of the gorge. And now there is indeed a scene. We look over "The Black Valley" through which lies our road; the Upper Lake is beneath us-a basin amongst the mountains. All around us is unmistakeably grand. The long valley of mingled rocks and greenswardthe stream which flows through it into the Lake,— mountains which shut out the world-one way to enter, the gorge which we have left,-one to retreat, the Lake which seems to have no outlet. At the top of the Pass we came up with two Englishmen. They were millwrights from Newcastle who had been working in the interior, and had come a long distance to see Killarney on their way homeward. Honoured be their noble curiosity. A great Poet-one we must all reverence has argued that the love of fine scenery is an acquired taste, and belongs only to highly cultivated minds;-and so Grasmere is no proper place for a Manchester weaver. Such notions come of seclusion from the world. It is the privilege of the times in which we live that the glories of our own land are rendered accessible to those of very humble means; and the interchange of thoughts between the artisans of one district and another, would do far more to destroy prejudices and cultivate good will, than the confined observations of the rich pleasure-seekers, who seldom come in contact with the people. These worthy men went home, we have no doubt, with improved hearts and understandings;-better satisfied with their own lot, and more ready to make some sacrifices for relieving the wants of others. As we approach the Lake the road becomes more difficult; but the sure-footed ponies step briskly amongst the stony lumps that lie in the path, and instinctively avoid the frequent bogs. We come to an iron grating, in a rude wall, which turns on its rusty hinges, and admits us into a smiling demesne. Here the river runs between gentle banks, in flowery meadows: "Cultured slopes, Wild tracts of forest ground, and scattered groves, Along the level of the glassy flood, They ceased not to surround us; change of place, the far-famed the far-famed 'Eagle's Nest.' But before we make a sudden turn round the point of the channel at its base, we must land, while the most marvellous echo of Killarney is awakened. The bugle calls. One echo, full,-another, faint;-another, fainter;-another, im. perfect;-another, bothered ;-original echo ;-repeat, imperfect. This is Mr. Crofton Croker's catalogue, accompanying his musical notation, of the echoes of the Eagle's Nest. The day was not quite favourable to the effect, so we lost some of this wonder. But the cannon! Alpine thunder could not be more sublime : one crash,-a peal,-another-and another-silencethen, far away, a solemn roll,-dying into low murmurings in the extreme distance. Inglis has truly and beautifully said of these startling effects, "our imagination endues the mountains with life; and to their attributes of magnitude, and silence, and solitude, we, for a moment, add the power of listening, and a voice." The Eagle's Nest is a pyramidal rock, rising without a break from its base. At a distance, with the giant mountains hanging over it, the Eagle's Nest appears of no marvellous elevation. Even when we float beneath its shadow, it is difficult to imagine that it is three times the height of Saint Paul's. We have been surrounded with none but large objects, and the eye has lost its accustomed sense of height and distance. The pencil cannot make such proportions intelligible. (Cut p. 283.) Below the Eagle's Nest is a passage through which a laden boat is not very safe to pass, according to the boatmen. To shoot the Old Weir Bridge is a feat, and it is quite proper to keep tourists out of the way of danger. We land, therefore, and let the boat glide through "at its own sweet will," bearing only our fair companion, who, with all womanly sympathies and refinements, has too high a mind to fear imaginary dangers. Once more on the lovely Dinis River, and then into the Lower Lake, and across to Ross island. Our space is too limited to allow us to digress much The Poet of The Excursion' from whom we into history, or the history of Ross Castle would be quote, has done so much to make us all love his worth relating. Erected by one of the early Donoghues, Lakes and Mountains, that, for his sake, we might it was the last stronghold in Munster which defied the wish that the railway whistle should never sound over cannon of the Parliamentary Ironsides. Ludlow laid Windermere: but for the sake of our fellows we siege to it in 1652; and by some wondrous exertion heartily rejoice that it does so sound; and more conveyed boats to the Lake with the intention of attackespecially glad are we that Killarney can now being it on the side where an enemy could scarcely be reached by common men. There is nothing grander in these kingdoms than the Upper Lake, over which our boat is now gliding. The mountains seem to have their feet in the deep waters;-they rise sheer up on every side. Gray islands spring abruptly from the bosom of the deep. Then, again, there are island rocks surmounted with the greenest of trees,and on some the arbutus attains a size that is altogether wondrous. (Cut p. 282.) But we must see this Upper Lake again : "Too solemn for day, too sweet for night." We are now in "The Long Range "-that beautiful channel which terminates at Glena. We are nearing expected. The garrison surrendered with little resistance-alarmed, it is said, by the remembrance of a prophecy, that Ross should fall, when war-ships should sail upon the Lake. As Innisfallen is associated with the ancient religion of these beautiful regions, Ross is in the same way allied to all records and legends of the feudal power, which once held undivided sway over these waters. Beneath this embattled tower the spiritstirring bagpipe once summoned the mountaineers together at the call of The Eagle's Whistle,' and 'The Step of the Glens,'-the marches of the O'Donoghues, which still may be heard in hall or bower, " stirring the heart as with a trumpet." Froissart has a striking picture of such chieftains as those who sat five centuries ago in the halls of Ross. It is the narrative of Sir Henry Christall, who was taken prisoner by the Irish in the time of Richard II.-married the daughter of his captor-and coming back after many years to English society, was sent to attend upon the kings who had submitted themselves to England, and were detained in a sort of honourable captivity in Dublin: would not eat, and said how I would take from them their good usage, wherein they had been nourished. Then I answered them, smiling to appease them, that it was not honourable for their estates to do as they did before, and that they must leave it and use the custom of England, and that it was the king's pleasure they should do so, and how he was charged so to order them. When they heard that they suffered it, because they had put themselves under the obeisance of the king of England, and persevered in the same as long as I was with them; yet they had one use which I knew well was used in their country, and that was, they did wear no breeches; I caused breeches of linen cloth to be made for them. While I was with them I caused them to leave many rude things, as well in clothing as in other causes. Much ado I had at first to cause them to wear gowns of silk furred with minever and gray; for before these kings thought themselves well ap parelled when they had on a mantle. They rode always without saddles and stirrups, and with great pain I made them to ride after our usage." "The king my sovereign lord's intent was, that in manner, countenance, and apparel of clothing, they should use according to the manner of England; for the king thought to make them a four knights: they had a fair house to lodge in in Dublin, and I was charged to abide still with them and not to depart; and so two or three days I suffered them to do as they list, and said nothing to them, but followed their own appetites. They would sit at the table and make countenance neither good nor fair. Then I thought I should cause them to change that manner. They would cause their minstrels, their servants, and varlets, to sit with them and to eat in their own dish, and to drink of their cups; and they showed me that the usage of their country was good, for they said, in all It is pleasant to contrast the frank fellowship of the things (except their beds), they were and lived as native kings towards their minstrels and servants, with common. So the fourth day I ordained other tables the formal etiquette of the Anglo-Norman court. There to be covered in the hall, after the usage of England, were nobler feelings in these despisers of "gowns of silk and I made these four kings to sit at the high table, and furred with minever," than in the luxurious Richard. their minstrels at another board, and their servants Two centuries after, Sir John Harrington saw the great and varlets at another beneath them, whereof by seem-rebel, Hugh Tyrone, and wondered at the love of his ing they were displeased, and beheld each other and retainers. If the old brotherhood were kept up, there is no mystery in the matter. The young O'Neals, the sons of Tyrone, wore velvet jerkins and gold lace, and the father made the "witty godson" of Elizabeth read him some cantos of his translation of Ariosto; but the followers of the earl were unspoiled in their fidelity by any refinements of luxury or knowledge: "The earl," says Sir John Harrington, "began by debasing his own manner of hard life, comparing himself to wolves, that fill their bellies sometime, and fast as long for it. **** Other pleasant and idle tales were needless and impertinent, or to describe his ferntable and fern-forms, spread under the stately canopy of heaven. His guard, for the most part, were beardless boys without shirts; who, in the frost, wade as familiarly through rivers as water-spaniels. With what charm such a master makes them love him I know not, but if he bid come, they come; if go, they do go; if he say do this, they do it." But we are lingering too long amongst the traces of old manners, as we lingered, till the sun was setting, in the exquisite gardens of Ross Island,-looking out from paths beauteous with every shrub and flower that art has here acclimated or nature strown, upon the mountains on which the mists are gathering, and driving fast before a gusty wind. Our steersman is impatient, and he has cause. "The boys" pull with a will through the waves, which now heave like a troubled sea. We have passed in a quarter of an hour from serene beauty into stern grandeur. How solemnly now sleeps Innisfallen in her watery bed; Glena looks frowning; the Lake is black, beyond all imaginable blackness of water-black in its vast depth, and beneath the gloom of the gathering clouds. Welcome the friendly shallow of the point on which our boat at last is stranded. Now, that we have seen these Lakes under very favourable circumstances, and can judge in some degree of their claims to surpassing beauty, let us compare our own impressions with those of two very competent but essentially different observers. Inglis, acute, cau |