The river flows through Newmarket, the birthplace of Curran, and Kanturk, the birthplace of Barry Yelverton, to Mallow which is the centre of the lines of railway radiating into Kerry, Fermoy, and Lismore, as well as to Cork city. The town is very beautifully situated. In the distance are the Kilworth mountains, which seem afar off to join the ample deer-park at Mallow Castle. It was once one of the liveliest and most fashionable resorts in Ireland, but its famous spas, to which gentlewomen and gallants came in the last century, are now unfrequented and almost forgotten. When abductions, duelling, and such pastimes were in vogue, "The Rakes of Mallow" were in their heyday. As Lysaght sang:—

"Beauing, belleing, dancing, drinking, Breaking windows, damning, sinking, Ever raking, never thinking, Live the rakes of Mallow.

Spending faster than it comes, Beating waiters, bailiffs, duns, Bacchus' true-begotten sons, Live the rakes of Mallow.

Living short, but merry lives. Going where the devil drives: Having sweethearts, but no wives, Live the rakes of Mallow."



The Blackwater flows past Mallow through a rich country surrounded by soft-breasted hills and well-planted lawns, to Fermoy, a garrison town of importance, from which Mitchelstown, eleven miles away, may be reached by a light railway. The caves at Mitchelstown are described elsewhere (Waterford section). We will part the branch line here and return, via Cork, to Youghal, the point from which to become familiar with the Blackwater at its best.

Youghal, except in summer-time, when the visitors to its splendid strand enliven its appearance, is a sombre old place with an air of retired respectability. It is full of memories of other days, for here the Dane and the Christian came together; the Norman made it a walled town, and the Spaniards came into its harbour.



From here Sir Walter Raleigh, its Mayor, went forth to found Virginia—and to the scaffold. It was a chartered city, and grew in wealth and importance from 1183 to 1579, when it was sacked by Gerald, sixteenth Earl of Desmond, then out "upon his keeping." Ormonde drove the Geraldines out of the town, and hanged the then Mayor outside his own door for aiding them. He rebuilt its walls, and placed here a strong garrison. In 1641 it was again besieged, but held out for six weeks until relieved. In 1645, Castlehaven attacked it, but was repulsed by Broghill, fifth son of the Earl of Cork. Here, during the war with the Confederates, money was struck. On the execution of Charles I., Ormonde proclaimed his son King, but the Puritans in the town revolted to Cromwell, who wintered here in 1649. In 1660, the Cavaliers and broken followers of the Geraldines captured the town, and ten days before his actual succession proclaimed Charles II. King. With varying fortunes of war, the town passed into the hands of the Jacobites and Williamites. The objects of interest, besides the picturesque attractions of the strand and beautiful bay, are very many. The Clock Tower remains where the old South Gate to the town stood. Tynte's Castle was built by Norman settlers in the fifteenth century. St. Mary's Cathedral is cruciform, consisting of nave, aisle, transepts, choir, and massive tower. In the chantry of Our Blessed Saviour, or south transept, besides the memorial to the founder and his countess, is the grotesque mausoleum, in florid, glaring Italian style, to the Earl of Cork and his family. At Boyle's feet is the kneeling figure of his first wife, Joan; at his head is that of his second, Catherine. Over the arch is his mother, Joan, and along the margin of the plinth are nine diminutive effigies—his children. The tower was evidently constructed rather as a defence than simply for a belfry. The churchyard, where there are many ancient gravestones, is the chief centre of local superstition, and here all local ghostly visitations are alleged to take place. Myrtle Grove, whilom the residence of the ill-fated Elizabethan soldier, Raleigh, is an unpretentious, ancient gabled dwelling. The interior is remarkable for its beautiful oak wainscoting.

During his sojourn in Munster, "Captain Sir Walter Raleigh" performed many deeds of dering-do, albeit some of them were far from being like Bayard's, without reproach. He was Mayor of Youghal, 1588-9; and, with Spenser, was granted the greater part of the forfeited estates of the Earl of Desmond. Raleigh's grant comprised property at Youghal and along the Blackwater to Affane, already mentioned. In the garden attached to Myrtle Grove he is supposed to have planted the potato, the first planted in Ireland.

The strand at Youghal is very fine, and sea-bathers are afforded every opportunity of enjoying themselves. In summer time the watering-place is much patronized, and every year is becoming more attractive. There are good hotels, and plenty of residences and lodgings to accommodate visitors during the season. In the morning the whole fore-shore is given over to the bathers, and in the evenings it is mostly "Oh, listen to the band" along the Promenade and in the Green Park. The inroads of the sea at Claycastle are at length being successfully encountered by the Case groining system, which has been found so efficient elsewhere.

The coast-line from Youghal to Cork is indented with splendid sea cliffs, fiords, and strands. Garryvoe lies between Youghal and Ballycotton. The sea for miles along this district has been eating into the clay cliffs, and threatens to fulfil a Gaelic prophecy that it will yet reach Killeagh, a town six miles inland. Near Killeagh is a very beautiful scene of sylvan splendour, Glenbower.

The railway line runs direct from Youghal to Cork, passing the thriving market town of Midleton, the granary of Cork County, and Carrigtwohill, where there are the ruins of a Norman Castle.

A ferry from Youghal brings the passenger into Waterford County. The road above Whiting Bay leads to the fishing village of Ardmore. It was perhaps, the first place in Ireland where the light of Christianity shone, as St. Declan is generally agreed to have been a precursor of the National apostle. In the country districts surrounding, as in the fishing village itself, the language most in use is Gaelic. The round tower, said to be of later date than any other in Ireland, is unique in many respects. The Cathedral, with its exquisite chancel arch and elaborate exterior arcading, will delight the antiquary and architect. Other interesting objects are the Ogham stones in its chancel, and the narrow lintelled "Bed" of St. Declan.



The service of steamers from Youghal to Cappoquin up the River Blackwater depends at present mainly on the state of the tide. But despite this and other things, the scenery on the river side will well repay inconvenience. Having left the ferry behind, the first place of interest is Rhincrew (The Bloody Point), and on the wooded hill the ruins of a preceptory of the Knights Templars still remain. Higher up on the western bank of the Glendine tributary stands Temple Michael, an old fortalice of the Geraldines, which Cromwell battered down for "dire insolence."



There is a legend which tells that the last of the Geraldines was buried at Ardmore, far from his young bride, who lost her life during the siege by the regicides. The story says, after his burial, at night his voice could be heard clearly, calling across the river, to bring him back and bury him by his own. For seven years the awe-struck peasants heard the plaintive voice calling, in the tender tongue of the Gael, "Garault, come to me,"—"Gerald, a ferry!" At last, some young men of his clan went to Ardmore and brought his dead body to Temple Michael, where his wife was buried, and henceforth his spirit no longer troubled the silent vigils of the fishermen at night.

The bend in the waterway brings one into sight of rich pastures and fine demesnes. Ballintray, "The Town of the Strand" has in its vicinity Molana Abbey, where the warrior, Raymond Le Gros, lies buried. At the broads of Clashmore, the highest water-mark to which the inflowing tide comes, one can easily imagine themselves upon an inland lake. Beyond is Strancally Castle, beetling over the river, set firmly in a foundation of crags. The local tradition carriers will gladly point out "The Murdering Hole," a natural fissure in the rocks, and here they will tell you that the departed Desmonds destroyed their guests after robbing them! Above the confluence of the Bride with the Blackwater, Villierstown and Camphire villages are passed, then the Awbeg joins its little flood, and beyond the island Dromana Ford is reached. Near is Dromana Castle, where "the old Countess of Desmond" was born. In the table-book of Robert Sydney, second Earl of Leyicester, written when Ambassador at Paris, about 1640, there is the following reference to her:—

"The old Countess of Desmond was a marryed woman in Edward IV. time of England, and lived till towards the end of Queen Elizabeth, so as she must needes be neare one hundred and forty years old. She had a new sett of teeth not long afore her death, and might have lived much longer had she not mett with a kind of violent death, for she would needes climbe a nut-tree to gather nuts, so falling down she hurt her thigh, which brought a fever, and that fever brought death. This my cousin, Walter Fitzwilliam, told me. This old lady, Mr. Haniot told me, came to petition the Queen, and, landing at Bristoll, she came on foot to London, being then so old that her daughter was decrepit, and not able to come with her."

Dromana House, on the eastern branch of the river, is situated on a beautiful height, which commands the reaches of the river from Cappoquin to Youghal. At more than one point on the river there were opportunities of seeing in the distance the cloisters of Mount Melleray—"the little town of God," lonely above the mists and shadows of the hills. As we walk or drive, the hillside behind the river winds its way through cliffs and well-wooded lands in front, the mountains unfold themselves range behind range. No one who has ever visited Mount Melleray will forget it or the generous Brothers. The Trappists, expelled from France in 1830, first settled on the borders of Kerry, but subsequently colonised this barren hillside, and already they have transformed it into a fine farm, containing rich pastures and thriving plantations. The monastery may be visited by gentlemen visitors, and cannot fail to prove of extraordinary interest. There are two guest houses, one for gentlemen and the other for ladies. No charge is made for their bed or board, and all creeds, classes, and nationalities are received with a caed mille failte. Every week a sermon in Irish is preached to the mountaineers.



Either from Melleray or Cappoquin, Lismore may be reached by car or train. It was the home of learning of old, and to-day, not only its beautiful position but historic Castle command attention. It is the birthplace of Boyle, the philosopher. Ptolemy is asserted very confidently by some authorities to have mentioned this place and its river. It is certain, however, that the place was long in existence in 631, when St. Carthage, of Rahan, fled thither. Nothing could be prettier than the appearance of the town, and it is a comfortable, well-to-do place, monopolising the trade of a large countryside. St. Machuda's Cathedral will repay inspection. The Castle is the Irish seat of the Duke of Devonshire. It was an ancient fortress, dating back to the reign of King John. It stands in a pre-eminently commanding position, over the Blackwater, and was the scene of many a hard-fought fight, especially in the wars of the Commonwealth, when Castlehaven captured it from the Roundheads. A magnificent view of the surrounding country may be had from its higher-storied windows. The public are freely admitted. From one of the high windows, it is said, when James II. was asked to look, he accused the maker of the suggestion of desiring to throw him from the dizzy height.

From the Railway Station at Lismore, the most interesting object in view is the new Roman Catholic Cathedral, dedicated to St. Carthage, the founder of the See, and believed to occupy the site of his cell. Thickly surrounded by beautiful lime trees, the warm red sandstones of the walling, with the limestone dressing of the windows and doorways, forms a brilliant picture. The interior is richly furnished, and altogether the church is well worthy of a visit.



Waterford and District.

Waterford is the port of call for most of the shipping from the West and South of England and Wales. The projected system by which steamers will run direct from Fishguard to Rosslare Harbour, whatever effect it may have upon Waterford as a port, will bring it by many hours nearer to the English markets. It is only a question of a few years until this route will be at the disposal of tourists and travellers from across the Channel. Under the Amalgamation of Railways Act of 1900, Waterford has the additional advantage of becoming a terminus of the system. With it as centre, railway services are supplied to Cork County and Lismore, to Limerick via Carrick-on-Suir and Clonmel, and to Kilkenny via Kilmacow and Thomastown.



"The Star of the Suir"—the City of Waterford—derived its name from the Danish words, Vedr-fiord, given to it by its original founders, the hardy Norsemen. From whatever side we approach the old town, whether land or sea, the sight is equally delightful. From without, approaching by the broad waterway, the city stretches forth to meet us, with the quaint wooden bridge spanning the noble river, and the hills forming a zone behind. Surely the Danes had an eye for beauty, as for maritime advantage, in selecting this happy spot for their fortress. In the ninth century, when the ploughers of the sea seized on the mouth of the Suir, they fortified a little delta some twenty acres in size, having the present Quay as its long side. From this little triangle the town grew, and in the last century was one of the first seaport towns in Ireland. Here, in 1171, Strongbow landed, defeated the Danes and Irish, who had confederated to repel him, and sacked the town. It is a strange historical coincidence that the Feast of St. Bartholomew was the day on which Strongbow landed and countenanced the massacre of the inhabitants. Under Raymond Le Gros the carnage was carried out, and in St. Lawrence O'Toole's address to the Irish princes at peace with the invader, which has been versified by Sir Charles Gavan Duffy, it is referred to in the lines:—

"Tell me not of leagues and treaties, Treaties sealed in faith as true As Black Raymond's, on the bloody Feast of St. Bartholomew."



King John landed here, and the town was walled in and fortified against the Irish, who hung like wolves around a fold in the outlying country. In the Revolution the town adhered to the King. It was the port most used by the Confederates, and here many of their proclamations were printed. It was the one place in Ireland which successfully resisted the all-conquering Cromwell, and hence received the name from the Cavaliers of Urbs intacta. An object of historic interest which has been restored within the present century is Reginald's Tower. It was built originally by Reginald the Dane, son of Sitrius, the great Danish King of Dublin and Fingal (The Fair Strangers), whom Brian Boru defeated at Clontarf. Here, it is said, DeClair married Eva, whose fair face induced him to join his forces to her father's fallen fortunes. Maclise, in his wonderful historical picture "Bartered Away,"[4] represents the nuptials as taking place on the battlefield, dyed with the blood of the vanquished Irish. There could not have been much love in the match after all. Strongbow was scarcely dead when his young widow wrote to Raymond Le Gros that "a great tooth had fallen out," which he understood to mean that the time had arrived for him to come and make her his own, which he did. The patron saints of the diocese of Waterford and Lismore are Saint Cartach and Saint Otteran, the latter being a Dane who embraced Christianity. The Cathedral (Episcopalian) occupies the site of the old Danish Cathedral, the existence of which, together with that of Christ Church in Dublin, bears testimony to the zeal with which the Danes embraced Christianity. The Quay is the most characteristic bit of Waterford. Across the bridge, from Mount Misery or Cromwell's Rock, two points of vantage, excellent views of the surroundings can be had. The Suir, shining silvery, steals in and out among the hills and by the old town into the sea. The most interesting of the ancient monuments in Waterford is what is commonly called the "French Church," which, more correctly, is entitled "The Holy Ghost Friary." Authorities agree in assigning the date of its foundation to 1240, but its history has never been written. After the Edict of Nantes, the fugitive Huguenots formed a little colony in Waterford. The Corporation granted a salary to their minister, and they were provided with a place of worship in the choir of the old church. All that remain of this once gorgeous pile of buildings are the ruins of the tower, Lady Chapel, chancel, and nave. The style is Early English, and the most attractive feature is the graceful three-lighted east window. The Catholic Cathedral is worth a visit. Within easy reach of the Quay is Ballybricken, the heart of the bacon industry, and the home of the best known body of pig-buyers in Ireland. These men are almost a community to themselves. They have their own traditions, and are more like an organisation which would have sprung up from a church guild centuries ago than in any way a modern trades union. Formerly Waterford was remarkable for the manufacture of beautiful cut glass, but the industry has died away. The housekeeper who possesses specimens of the art considers herself lucky indeed in her possession, as collectors are continually on the alert to procure them. In the immediate vicinity of Waterford itself there are many beauty spots and places of interest. In the suburb of Newtown stands the paternal home of Lord Roberts of Waterford and Candahar, besides whom on its roll of famous children Waterford includes the names of Charles Keane and Vincent Wallace. Portlaw, four and a half miles away, on the south bank of the Suir, was once the centre of a thriving cotton industry. Here an order may be had at the estate office to visit Curraghmore, the residence of the Marquis of Waterford. The magnificent demesne includes over four thousand acres, and Curraghmore is possessed of the best-blooded stud of hunters in Ireland.



Tramore, seven miles away, is reached by train in fifteen minutes. It is one of the most popular watering places in the South of Ireland, and in the height of the season it is estimated that about four thousand visitors augment the normal population of two thousand. Many of the Waterford merchants live there, and their villas and the houses of the town, rising one street above another on the side of the hill, make a pretty picture when viewed from the strand. The hotels are numerous, the Grand Hotel can be recommended as being specially comfortable, while there are three or four other hotels where very good accommodation can be had. The lodging-house accommodation is equal to that to be obtained at any Irish seaside resort.



In addition to capital sea and trout fishing, the visitor can enjoy the pleasures of golf and lawn-tennis, and during the summer months races are frequently held at the Tramore Flying Course, which is situated within view of the town. The views of this pleasantly situated holiday reunion will recall to many minds happy days spent by the Sounding Sea.

The Rabbit Burrow, a little further on, is a mile in length, and helps to divide the Back Strand from the spacious bay. Just before reaching this Burrow, the visitor will see a tombstone erected to the memory of those who were lost in the "Sea Horse" transport, in January, 1816, when returning from the Peninsular Campaign. No less than 362 lost their lives in this terrible disaster. At the western side of Tramore there are many places along the rock-bound coast well worth a visit. Passing along in the Newtown direction we come in view of the Ladies' Cove; here, years ago, a fishing pier was built by the Board of Works. It was swept right away one stormy night over two decades ago, and has not been replaced since. Along the Cliff Road we catch views of Gun's Cove, and the Gillameen Cove, where excellent bathing facilities, free of charge, can be availed of by the visitor.

On the western shore, twelve miles by road from Waterford, is the pretty watering place of Dunmore. It is situated at the mouth of the river Suir in a valley gently sloping to the sea, and is protected from the north winds by a wood which, in the hot summer days, is a most delightful resort for visitors. There is also a public park and tennis ground, and the facilities for bathing, particularly for gentlemen, leave nothing to be desired.



In the early part of the last century the place was a mail packet station for the mails to and from England. The harbour was built by the Government at a cost of about L100,000, and is at present under the control of the Board of Works. Here, in the fishing season, are boats from all parts of the Kingdom fishing for herring and mackerel, and special steamers are constantly running to and from Milford with the harvest of the sea.

There are some particularly good villas and houses which can be rented in the season, and there is a good hotel just over the harbour, while rooms are to be had on reasonable terms at many houses in the town. For persons who desire a select quiet place to spend a holiday in, it can be recommended strongly, while for those who are fond of sea-fishing or yachting no better place in Ireland can be had. Although there is no railway connection with Waterford cars run daily, the fare being only 1s. for the twelve miles.

Above the confluence of the Barrow and Suir, six and a half miles from the city, from the top of the hill over Cheekpoint (Side a fairy)—where "the river Rosse meets the river of Waterford"—a grand panorama presents itself. In the distance the mountains shoulder one another for prominence; the Comeraghs, the many peaked Galtees, and

"Sweet Slievenamon, the darling and pride, With soft flowing bosom and brow like a bride."

This beautiful mountain owes its name, "The Hill of the Women," to a Finnian legend, which tells that Finn M'Cool promised to make his wife of whichever of the fair women of Ireland could reach its summit first, when all were started from the foot. Grainne Oge, the Gaelic Helen, of course was heroine of the day, and Finn's taking her was the origin of one of the most enthralling of the Celtic romances.



Among the more interesting objects at Dunbrody are St. Catherine's Church, an old time dependency of the Abbey, and the splendid remains of the Cistercian Monastery, rising above the meadows by which the Campile Stream flows. The monastic church in general style is Early English, and is fairly preserved. It dates from the twelfth century, and was founded by Henri de Montmorenzi, Marshal to Henry II.—the same who was killed at the Curragh.

There is a severe simplicity about its lines which gives an impression of great dignity. The crenelated Tower springs from the nave and transept. The Abbots of Dunbrody sat as Lords in Parliament, and exercised civil jurisdiction. Above Dunbrody, on the river opposite "The Little Island," where was an ancient hermitage, in a straight line is Ballinakill House, where James II. spent his last night in Ireland, on the day before that celebrated in the ballad, which tells:—

"Righ Shemus he has gone to France, And left his crown behind, Ill luck be their's, both day and night, Put running in his mind."

Passage East (seven miles), now a fishing village, with spider-legged spit light, was reduced by Cromwell in 1649. The old mole still stands. At Ballyhack, across the ferry, a strong, square castle is well preserved. "New Geneva," in the vicinity, was garrisoned with Hessians during the Rebellion of '98. It is mentioned in the well-known Irish song, "The Croppy Boy." The place received its name in 1786, when a colony of Genoese exiles were established there. On the Waterford coast, from the city to where the Blackwater kisses the sea, beside a range of noble cliffs, there are many points of interest. The Tower of Hook, standing one hundred feet high, on the promontory of the same name on the Wexford side, is attributed amongst others to Reginald the Dane, Ross MacRume, the founder of New Ross, and Florence de la Hague (1172). Its circular walls are of great thickness and strength. When Strongbow heard of this Tower of Hook, with Crook (Norse, Krok a nook) on the western side, he is alleged to have said "He would take Waterford by Hook or Crook," and thus originated a common saying which has come down to our own days. The Saltees, two islands off the Wexford coast, were the refuge to which Colclough and Bagnall Harvey hastened in vain after the suppression of the Rebellion in '98. Helvick Head, the name of which also betrays its Danish origin, marks the entrance to Dungarvan Bay. The line running from Waterford to Limerick Junction contains many places of interest, from which short tours may be made. As we come near to Carrick-on-Suir the castle comes into view. The present building was mainly erected by the former Earl of Ormonde, "Black Tom," as he is known in history. He was one of the many Irish gallants who found favour in the eyes of Queen Elizabeth. From Carrick, a drive of eight miles brings us to Lough Coumshinawn, a lonely tarn lying high among the Comeragh mountains, on one side of which the cliff rises perpendicularly to a height of seven hundred feet. The railway from Carrick runs through the beautiful valley of the Suir to Kilsheelan, and then passes to the left of the Knockmealdown mountains to Clonmel, the capital of the "premier county." The town is pleasantly placed in a thriving centre of local trade. It figured largely in the fights between Cromwellian and Confederate, and some of the old battlements still stand witness to its strength in bygone times. The peasantry have a tradition that a cloud will ever hang above the town since Father Sheehy's death in the last century. The tradition is hinted at in the beautiful emigrant ballad "Shameen Dhu," by Katherine Tynan:—

"Now, God watch over you, Shameen, An' His blessed Mother Mary! 'Twas you that had the lightest heart In all sweet Tipperary—

'Twas you could sing the blackbird's song, In dry or rainy weather: Avic, the long-road wasn't long Whin we thravelled it together.

Sure, scores of times in the mornin' bright You sung this very road, You med the mare's heart bate so light She never felt her load; 'Twas you could lilt wid the thrush's trill, Ah, well, avic machree! God grant you may be singin' still In that lonely far counthrie!"



The name of Laurence Sterne, author of "Tristram Shandy," and of the gorgeous Countess of Blessington, are both associated with Clonmel as their birthplace. Through a mountain cut, appropriately called "The Wilderness," the railway line runs aside to Thurles. The little church of Rathronan, standing high on the hill, was the scene of the sensational Arbuthnot abduction in the last century. Those who wish for details of that unhappy love affair will find the story told in faithful words elsewhere. The demesne lands between Clonmel and Fethard are many. Fethard was an old walled town, it defied the Cromwellians, and surrendered with all the honours of war. After treaty and terms were agreed on, the Roundheads found that what they had mistaken as gaping mouths of cannon on the fortress were nothing more dangerous than innocent churns placed in positions of pretence, not defence. The bogland from Fethard to Thurles is uninteresting; the intermediate stations are Farranalleen, Laffan's Bridge, and Horse and Jockey, at which collieries are still being worked. At Thurles we meet the main line of the Great Southern and Western. Thurles, originally a Danish town and the scene of the battle between the Norsemen and Irish, afterwards became a fortalice of the Knights Templars. Here, by the bridge across the Suir, the remains of the old settlement are still to be seen. Four miles distant, standing by the banks of the river, surrounded by tall trees, are the remains of the once great Cistercian Holy Cross Abbey. It was built in 1168-69 to house the relic of the True Cross sent by the Pope to Brian Boru's grandson, Donald, King of Thomond. This interesting relic, after centuries of vicissitudes, is now enshrined at the Convent of the Ursulines, in Blackrock, Cork. On the feasts of the Finding of the True Cross (May 3rd), and of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross (September 14th), and on every Friday in Lent, it is presented for public veneration. Thurles is the seat of Episcopal residence of the Archdiocese of Cashel. On the main line higher than Thurles is Templemore, founded by the Knights Templars. Between Thurles and the Limerick Junction is Goold's Cross station, six miles from Cashel. The noblest evidence of the early civilization of Ireland is to be found in Cashel Of the Kings. Generally the buildings date from the early twelfth century, the Round Tower being much earlier and the Cathedral later. Cormac's Chapel was consecrated in 1134, being built by the Saint King of Munster. It is rich Norman work, comprising nave, chancel, and towers at the transepts. The doorways and chancel arch are elaborate. The Round Tower is unique when compared with the other buildings, as it is of sandstone. It is connected with the transept of the Cathedral. The pointed windows, choir, transepts, and tower are very beautiful. In the burial-ground outside is the famous Cross of Cashel, with a sculptured effigy of St. Patrick. The whole group gathered together on the massive Rock of Cashel, whose firmness is a proverb in Ireland, presents an imposing array. This Cathedral was the one burnt by the Earl of Kildare in 1495, when his excuse was that he thought the Archbishop was within. Here, in 1647, a bloody tragedy fell out. Murragh-an-Theathaun, "Murrough of the Burnings," as the peasantry still call Lord Inchiquin, massacred a number of women and children, who sought sanctuary here when Cashel had fallen before his siege train. At the foot of the rock are the cruciform remains of the Abbey of the Cistercians. If, instead of diverging from Clonmel to Thurles, we continue to the Limerick Junction, we pass Cahir, a military station with an ancient Castle in excellent repair. From Cahir, tourists can drive to Cashel, to Ardfinane, or to Mitchelstown via Clogheen. The Caves at Mitchelstown may be visited from Fermoy, Lismore, or Clogheen, and if the visitor is sojourning at any of these places he should find his way to these wonderful formations. Besides the caves, Mitchelstown contains Caherderinny Castle, Kilbehiny, and Mitchelstown Castle, the residence of the Kingston family. Leaving the village of Kilbehiny we cross to Skereenarinka, "the height for dancing," and follow a narrow hilly road on the Galtee side which leads to the caves, in the townland of Coolagarranroe. The different chambers of the larger caves, of which the Kingston gallery is most beautiful, have been named: "the House of Lords," "the House of Commons," "the Cross of the Four Roads," "the Scotchman's," "O'Leary's," and "O'Callaghan's" caves, "the Altar," "the Closet," "the Cellar," and "the Garret." The smaller objects of interest within have been called: "Lot's Wife," "Mary Queen of Scots," "the Bed of Honour," "the Cat and Kittens," "the Flitch of Bacon," &c. From Clogheen to Tipperary we cross the Suir, and follow the foot of the Galtees. The surrounding country is picturesque and contains some of the finest pasture land in Ireland, being part of what is known in Munster as the "Golden Vale." Four miles away by a beautiful road, through the rising-grounds, the Glen of Aherlow can be reached. The glen is richly wooded, and from Newbridge over the Aherlow river, Galteemore (3,015 feet), the highest peak of the range may be reached. Tipperary town is a good market place, and is pleasantly situated beneath Slievenamon. The only relic of its former grandeur is that of the Augustinian Friary, a foundation of Henry the Third's reign.



For information as to Sport to be had in the Waterford District, see end of this volume, where particulars are given as to Golf, Fishing, Shooting, Cycling, &c.



Killarney and Glengarriff.

Killarney.—From Limerick Junction to Mallow, where the branch line runs into Kerry, the tourist to Killarney runs by many places of interest. Emly, now a dwindled village, was once a diocesan city. During the wars of the Commonwealth, Terence Albertus O'Brien, Bishop of Emly, was executed in Limerick by Ireton. His stole and pectoral cross are still in the possession of representatives of the family to which he belonged at Mitchelstown.

In the rich plain under the Ballyhoura hills, "the land flowing with milk," is the ancient town of Kilmallock. It was the citadel of the Earls of Desmond when they held high their crests, and every stone in the place is historical.

Two of its four gates still remain, and among the ruins, which have secured it the name of the "Baalbec of Ireland," are those of the old Dominican Priory and Abbey Church. In the former is the mutilated grave of the White Knight, a name still loathsome in the peasant's ear, and on whom the bards have let fall their choicest curses.

Lough Gur is of interest to the antiquary. It is ten miles to the north, and was the centre of the Desmond country. Here of old, the Kings of Cashel kept their Grenan or "Sunny Place" for feasting. The cyclopean structure in the vicinity points to the place as being of importance in pre-historic times. From Charleville, a thriving town, runs a line of railway direct to Limerick. Buttevant and Mallow are particularly referred to elsewhere. Millstreet is the border town on the mearings of Cork and Kerry.

Beyond the bogland country outside Millstreet is the village of Cullen, where tradition says no smith has been known to thrive. Saint Lateerin, a virgin of early Christian days, near here made her recluse, and every day she walked across the bog, and took "living fire" in her kirtle from the forge to her home. The smith once remarking the prettiness of her white feet, she momentarily forgot her vow of chastity, and the fire burnt through the homespun and blistered her feet. She went back to her cell, and prayed that no smith should ever thrive in Cullen, and none has ever tried to do so!

Rathmore is on the high road to Gneeveguillia mountain, and to the north of the station, and at Christmas time, 1896, occurred the fearful debacle of the bog, which struck terror into the simple inhabitants, and, not unnaturally, was attributed by them to super-natural causes. Two hundred acres of Bogach-na-Mine formed a landslip and rolled in a huge mass southwards, sweeping away several little farmsteads and suffocating the inhabitants and cattle. At Headford, the junction for Kenmare, the scenery is very wild, and all around

"Kerry is pushing her high headlands out To give us the kindly greeting."

At last, after about a four hours' run, if we came by the special tourist train from Dublin, we have completed our one hundred and eighty-six miles, and are in sight of

KILLARNEY,

the home of lakes, which has well been called "the Gem of the Western World": its magnificent mountain peaks, its green swards and gushing cascades, all surrounded with an atmosphere of romance and tradition. Outside the railway station, we are face to face with the finest hotel in the south of Ireland. Well placed, well managed, it combines all the comforts of a home with the convenience of a well-appointed hostelry. It is within easy reach of the principal points of interest.



The grounds adjoin Lord Kenmare's beautiful demesne and Deer Park, which skirts the lake shores, and contain the splendid Golf Links.

Killarney, or "the Church of the Sloetrees," lies on a flat plateau, within a mile from the shores of the far-famed Lough Lene, as the three lakes, popularly known as the Lakes of Killarney, are called in Irish. The town possesses an Episcopal Palace, a cathedral and churches of interest, besides a monastery and School of Arts and Crafts. Otherwise it deserves little attention; but on fair days, when the peasantry from the neighbouring parishes crowd in, it presents a lively and varying aspect. If the town is insignificant, not so its surroundings, for nowhere else in the wide world is there such a combination of charms and variety of beauty, in mountain and lake scenery, thrown together.

"For how could river, lake, and sea In softer sister hues agree? Or hills of passionate purple glow Far and near more proudly flow? And when will summer kiss awake Lovelier flowers by lawn or brake? Or brighter berries blush between Foliage of a fresher green?"

There is a story of a tourist who, lingering long in the Holy Land, was pained at the irreverent hurry of an American, who arrived there one afternoon, scurried over the sacred places, and prepared to depart betimes on the morrow. He timidly inquired of the swift-foot why he, who had come so far, rushed away so quickly. "Sir," said the American, "I am timed to do Europe in a fortnight. I have thrown in the Holy Land, but if I stay here longer than one night I cannot see Killarney, which takes three days." He was a wise man in his generation. Although enterprising people have attempted to do the tour of the Lakes in a day, they have always gone away more than satisfied with what they saw, but with hearts hungry to return at a future date, and behold the beauties they had left unseen.



The Lakes Of Killarney are three in number, connected by a swift-flowing stream, the Long Range, and emptying their waters through the river Laune into Castle Haven, on the Kerry coast. The entire journey can be performed by boat, but in the suggested tours given, both car, and boat, and ponies are pressed into our service.

The divisions of the Lough Lene are:—The Upper Lake (extreme length, two-and-a-half miles; extreme breadth, half-a-mile); the Torc, or Middle Lake (extreme length, two miles; extreme breadth, seven-eighths of a mile); and the Lower Lake (extreme length, five and one-eighth miles; extreme breadth, three miles). The first glimpse caught of the lakes, lying like broad mirrors beneath the high mountains, is a vision of fair delight. Like tall clansmen, Mangerton, Carnthoul, and the gathering Cruacha dhu M'Gillicuddy—the black reeks of the McGillicuddy—muster around, as it were, to re-tell us

"The tale of the spell-stricken band, All entranced, with their bridles and broad swords in hand, Who await but the word to give Erin her own"—

that old legend of the sleeping warriors garrisoned within the mountain's sides, which is met with in more than one Irish county. The Upper Lake is characterised by an untamed, peerless outline, and so near to the mountains does it lie, that the fissures in their rugged sides are almost countable, and the fingers of fancy almost touch the gorse on their slopes. Gliding over its waters, we readily see in them a land-locked sea. A ridge of the Glena mountains shuts it out from the north, the many-peaked reeks guard the passes to the west, and to the south stands up Derrycunnihy—"The Oak Wood of the Rabbits"—between which and Torc is the fair bend of a Glen Coumagloun. Between the lips of the Lakes and the feet of the hills there appears no distance

"Save just a trace of silver sand Marks where the water meets the land."

Muffling the boatmen's oars for a moment, we can realise that indescribable solemnity with which silent nature hushes everything. Even the countless streams that have lost their way across the highlands, in their hurry to join the Lakes, seem to cease from babbling. But following the sinuous Long Range when we reach the still water beneath the Eagle's Nest, Nadanullar, is the psychological moment to awaken the echoes that eternally haunt the frowning eyry. A bugle-call sounded here is taken up by the barricades of rock, and is repeated even ten times over. Small wonder that the fairy hosts are credited with passing it along their lines! The mountains take up their dying tones of sweet sounds, and answer it one to the other until the ear can no longer follow it through space. The ferns and rich foliage of the mountain side trail their long fingers in the water, and cluster and quicken among the crevices of the rocks. Recently the Laureate visited Ireland for the first time; hitherto this land of poetry had been to him but "the damnable country" of the politician. He came, he saw, but Killarney conquered; and he, like all others who have gazed upon its beauty, renders tribute where it rightly belongs. "Damnable" is not the adjective to apply to a heavenly land, of which he truly says:—

"Such varied and vigorous vegetation I have seen no otherwhere; and when one has said that, one has gone far towards awarding the prize for natural beauty. But vegetation, at once robust and graceful, is but the fringe and decoration of that enchanting district. The tender grace of wood and water is set in a frame-work of hills—now stern, now ineffably gentle, now dimpling with smiles; now frowning and rugged with impending storm; now muffled and mysterious with mist, only to gaze out on you again with clear and candid sunshine. Here the trout leaps; there the eagle soars; and there beyond the wild deer dash through the arbutus coverts, through which they have come to the margin of the lake to drink, and, scared by your footstep or your oar, are away back to crosiered bracken or heather covered moorland. But the first, the final, the deepest and most enduring impression of Killarney is that of beauty unspeakably tender, which puts on at times a garb of grandeur and a look of awe, only in order to heighten by passing contrast the sense of soft insinuating loveliness. How the missel thrushes sing, as well they may! How the streams and runnels gurgle, and leap, and laugh! For the sound of journeying water is never out of your ears; the feeling of the moist, the fresh, the vernal, is never out of your heart. My companion agreed with me, that there is nothing in England or Scotland as beautiful as Killarney—meaning by Killarney its lakes, its streams, its hills, its vegetation; and if mountain, wood, and water—harmoniously blent—constitute the most perfect and adequate loveliness that nature presents, it surely must be owned that it has all the world over no superior."



Leaving the Upper Lake behind, and bidding adieu to the green islands that stud its breast with arbutus and the cedars of Lebanon, the Old Weir Bridge meets the eye. 'Neath its arch the waters come down with foam and force, the oars are shipped, and we shoot straight through the eye of the rapid, thanks to the strong arm and sure nerve of the oarsmen. The beautiful reach here is the bosom "where the bright waters meet." Amid exquisite combination of colour, a Vallambrosa strewed with ferns, lichens, mosses, rich green hollies and arbutus with many coloured berries, we tread our way by a passage of beauty round Dinis Island into the Middle or Torc Lake, sheltered by the broad breast of the mountain from which it takes its name. Like "Muckross," the "Pleasant Point of Wild Swine," the name Torc is called after the wild boars, which in former years went "gerasening" over its slopes. Rising abruptly, the mountain stands clear between Mangerton and Glena, the lower sides well wooded. Innis Dinish, the island at the "beginning of the waters," is the port for boats. The Cottage may be visited. The Whirlpool, between the waters of the lake and river, has been called O'Sullivan's Punch Bowl. Drohid-na-Brickeen, "The Bridge of Little Trout," or Brickeen Bridge, and Doolah, where the disused marble quarries and copper mines are still pointed out, are within a short distance. At the estuary of the Devil's Stream, which flows through the ravines on the mountain side, is the Devil's Island—almost inaccessible—on which a few stunted trees manage to secure a precarious existence. Within the little bay of Dundag is Goose Island. The rocks and caves along the lake shores are shrouded with traditions of O'Donoghue, Chieftain of the Glens. A long cave is called "The Wine Cellar"; at the end is "O'Donoghue's Arm Chair"; his Butler, a solitary crag, is called "Jackybwee." The most interesting of the fissures made by the waters in the rock side are what the enterprising boatmen have agreed to call "Colleen Bawn Rock." By the beautiful Glena Bay, we enter the Lower Lake, which is the largest and most charming of the group. It sleeps beneath the guardian heights of the Toomies Hills, and a vision of more loveliness is nowhere to be found. Low-lying shores, to the east and north, are jungled with the fronds of the hill ferns.

"Oh, the Fern! the fresh hill Fern! That girds our blue lakes from Lough Ine to Lough Erne; That waves on the crags, like the plume of a King, And bends like a nun, over clear well and spring; The fairy's tall palm-tree, the heath birds fresh nest, And the couch the red deer deems the sweetest and best; With the free winds to fan it, and dew-drops to gem, Oh, what can ye match with its beautiful stem!"



The highest mountain in Ireland, Carrantual,[4] at one side lifts its lofty brow, "crowned with tiaras fashioned in the sky." On its summit an outlaw, known in Munster as the "Shon" or Hawk, after many sleepless nights, footsore and weary, slept here with a prayer, "Thank God, at last I am above all my enemies." The peasantry pronounce the name "Carntwohill," which translated means, the left-handed or inverted sickle. The expansiveness of the Lower Lake appears at first to minimise its beauty, when compared with its smaller companions. But the more its loveliness is explored, the greater the revelation of the harmony and luxuriance of the landscape. No less than thirty-five islands, like beauty spots of a fairy "drop scene," bedeck the silver sheen of its surface. The largest of these, Innisfallen, almost midway between the eastern and western shores, is some thirty acres in extent, and is engirdled by leafy bowers of green trees. Shaggy sheep are couched in repose, or are busy with its verdant lawn. In the early morning, or tender gloaming which closes the Munster day, the holy place is

"Quiet as a nun, Breathless with adoration."



Shafts of the dawning or waning sun, as the hour may be, illumine the fair pageant. The wavering outlines of the hills make the turret-tops to the dark green of the woods and the emerald of the meadows. The richest of colours from hill, tree, and rock accumulate on the surface of the Lake, burnished like silver. To-day the natural scenery is the same as of old, and few will wonder that here a saint found delights to prepare him in some degree for the pleasures stored in eternity. Of St. Finian Labra we know little beyond that he was a native of Ely O'Carroll, then a part of Munster, and was a disciple of St. Brendan. But his spirit loiters around Innisfallen, and the most casual of travellers will tread lightly on the ground hallowed by his footsteps. The monastic remains are many, but by the enthusiastic antiquary alone can their fragments and chief features be traced. "The Annals of Innisfallen," which form one of the chief sources of Irish history, were written here 600 years ago. Leaving the "Holy Island," we cross the lake and land at the foot of the Toomies Mountains, famous in pre-historic myths, to visit the O'Sullivan Cascade. The legend, which is too often wasted on sceptical ears, tells that O'Sullivan, a captain of his people, renowned amongst them for fleetness of foot and prowess as a hunter, on one occasion went to hunt the red deer. The faint yellow rays of morning were lighting up the eastern sky as he went forth. Gaily the deep-mouthed dogs obeyed, sniffing the fresh breeze across the mountain purpled with heather. Scarce had he left home when a magnificent stag bounded across his path. Swift as the lightning flash the dogs sprung upon the track—away across the moors and down the glens, on the scent they went. Throughout that livelong day O'Sullivan followed the chase, weary, tired, and thirsty, but still determined to make the prize his own. At length night, and darkness with it, came; the stag could be seen no more, the dogs, too, were at fault, and the scent was lost. Disappointed, and spent with the labour of the chase, the huntsman blew a shrill blast on his horn to call the dogs to him, and faced for home across the hills. But there was a voice that, loud and clear, called upon him—"O'Sullivan, O'Sullivan, turn back!" Brave and fearless, like his race, he turned round, to behold before him the centre of so many cycles of romance—Finn MacCool. "Why do you dare chase my stag?" asked Finn. "Because it was the finest that man ever saw," answered O'Sullivan. The answer pleased Finn MacCool. "O'Sullivan," said he, "you are a valiant man, and have been wasted in the long chase. You thirst, and I will give you to drink." So saying, he stamped his huge heel upon the hard rock, and forth burst the waters, seething and dashing as they do to this day. O'Sullivan quenched his thirst and sped on his way.



From the innermost recess of the glen the water flows down, in one of the most fascinating spots to be found within all the delicious realm of Kerry. The ivy hangs in dense draperies from the rocks, a sweet disorder of arbutus, evergreens, and all the flowers that grow in a radiant land, daringly lean across the canyon, and vainly try to trip the rushing stream, which, in cascade after cascade, flings itself with passionate energy, and a ceaseless murmur, over the rocks. The placidness of the huge lake is in strange contrast to the noisy stream which so excitedly hastens to meet it, and, as if awed by its dignity, as it comes nearer and nearer the mountain stream, sinks its voice, until in a subdued sigh it falls into the breast of the lake. Underneath the projecting rock, and overhung with luxuriant herbs, O'Sullivan's Grotto offers a quiet retreat. Following the wooded shores of Glena Bay, we pass Stags, Burnt, and other islands, and come to Glena Cottage, hiding in the foliage of leafy trees. Glena means "the valley of good fortune," and a name more suggestive of happier thoughts than weird Glownamorra across the lake—"the glen of the dead."



A mile's drive through the pleasant demesne lands of Muckross brings us to the water's edge at Castlelough Bay, in the middle lake, on a promontry of which the ruins of Muckross Abbey are to be seen. Here, in the fifteenth century, Donald M'Carthy founded an Abbey for Franciscan friars. The quiet cloisters in the northwest transept, with their varying pointed and rounded arches, are unique. The recessed doorway by which we enter is very beautiful. The towers and east window are in fair preservation. The monuments within the ruined pile tell us that it

"contains In death's embrace M'Carthy More's remains,"

and also reminds us that

"If Erin's chiefs deserve a generous tear, Heir of their worth, O'Donoghue lies here."

In the centre of the cloisters there grows a great yew tree, spreading its many branches and shade over them, and above the side walls, forming a dark cowl, which overshadows the old house of the monks. In ancient Erin the yew tree was regarded as sacred, and in its shade the Druids performed their mystic rites. With the early Christians, as an evergreen, it was a symbol of Life Eternal.

The peasants still inherit some of the awe with which the sacred tree was held in former days, and they are loth to hurt it with the loss of a single leaf. All impressive is the desolate majesty of Muckross, whatever time it is visited!

"But the gay beams of lightsome day Gild but to flout the ruins grey."

At night, when the pale ghost of the moon looks across the lake, when the mountains are shrouded in shadows, when the waters are lulling the slumbering land,

"And the owlet hoots o'er the dead man's grave,"

the solemnity of the scene surpasses even that of fair Melrose, by the distant Tweed, of which Sir Walter Scott tells.

Driving past the modern mansion in the demesne, along Torc Lake, by the groves of Dinis, and through the arches of the Old Weir Bridge, the river glistens and sparkles in the sun, while the distant calmer water lies deep in sleepy shadows. Beyond the peculiar rock known as the White Deer we pass through the Tunnel cut under the huge slope of the mountains. Here is a point of view which fascinates all visitors, and from which an ample picture of the surroundings may be secured. A mile further we cross the Galway river, rushing down a well-worn channel through Cournaglown, the valley sides of which are covered with oak trees. Already the ceaseless chorus of Derrycunnihy Cascade fills our ears. With tumult and cries of havoc, the water springs from an altitude on the mountain side, dividing its force into many minor cataracts, as it forces the passage barricaded by rocks and boulders, to unite them again in a deep pool, and after a second's rest, it musters its full strength, and falls in a torrent towards the Middle Lake. Colman's Leap, across the stream beneath the Eagle's Nest, is shown here, and of it a legend similar to others in many parts of Ireland is told. A mile eastward, along the Kenmare road, we come to Torc Waterfall, lovely as a capricious colleen, whose modes are all the more "deludering" for their uncertainty—Torc, whether tripping gently or rushing angrily, "to one thing constant never," makes its bed in a fairy realm, a leafy garden of ever-changing beauty. Larch and alder, arbutus, oak, and hazel thickly curtain the Fall from the passing glance. But a sylvan path o'erstrewn with leaves, and bordered with many fronded ferns, discovers the fountain in full bearing. White with foam, and angry for its long delay in the grip of Mangerton, and the hollow of the Devil's Punch Bowl, the flood breaks through the wall of rocks seventy feet high, and spits a shower of spray on every futile thing which attempts to stem its course or stay its purpose. The panorama spread out beneath the rocks of Torc comprehends, in all their glory of colour and contrast, the Middle and Lower Lakes beneath the mountains.



Two and a-half miles northwards by the King's Bridge, or about one mile direct from Killarney, within sight of the Lower Lake and the Purple Mountains, are the ruins of Aghadoe, the "Church of the two Yew Trees," founded under the blessing of Saint Finian. The remains of the Round Tower and Abbot's Castle can still be seen, but these and the eighth century doorway of the old church are all that have weathered the wind of centuries. The summit of the old tower is a vantage point for a vista. Dr. Todhunter has written a beautiful ballad, in imitation of the passionate Irish laments, for an outlaw who was buried there.

AGHADOE.

There's a glade in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe, There's a green and silent glade in Aghadoe, Where we met, my love and I, love's fair planet in the sky, O'er that sweet and silent glade in Aghadoe.

There's a glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe, There's a deep and secret glen in Aghadoe, Where I hid him from the eyes of the redcoats and their spies That year the trouble came to Aghadoe.

Oh! my curse on one black heart in Aghadoe, Aghadoe; On Shaun Dhuv, my mother's son, in Aghadoe! When your throat fries in hell's drouth, salt the flame be in your mouth, For the treachery you did in Aghadoe!

For they tracked me to that glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, When the price was on his head in Aghadoe; O'er the mountain, through the wood, as I stole to him with food, Where in hiding lone he lay in Aghadoe.

But they never took him living in Aghadoe, Aghadoe; With the bullets in his heart in Aghadoe, There he lay, the head—my breast keeps the warmth where once 'twould rest— Gone, to win the traitor's gold, from Aghadoe!

Oh! to creep into that cairn in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, There to rest upon his breast in Aghadoe! Sure your dog for you could die with no truer heart than I, Your own love, cold on your cairn in Aghadoe.



The nearest boat place for Innisfallen is at Ross Castle. We approach it from the high road across the moat, where once the drawbridge was let up and down. The old keep, wearing a cotamore of ivy, still guards the water's edge. By a spiral stone staircase we reach the battlements and look out across the lake.

The Castle held out for Charles the First, but was dismantled by Ludlow. It was originally a fort of "The O'Donoghue," the chief who centres in the many traditions which the boatmen weave around every object of interest in Killarney. He lies enchanted beneath the lake, with a city full of his people. But at times he has come across the water on his fiery steed, or danced to the Rincead-fadda on the shores. Whoever sees him is fortunate, because he gives "good luck, which is better than money," to all whose eyes meet his.

The Gap of Dunloe is a gloomy mountain pass cut through the rough rocky slope in the hills between the Toomies and the Macgillicuddy's Reeks. It is a magnificent defile, four miles long. The rough bridle-path running through it, at times almost on the edge of precipices, beneath which the wild goats flock. It is approached by a winding road, embroidered on one side by a shady little grove of fir, larch, stunted oaks, and mountain ash. Through the little windows between the trees, when the sun shines, the reflection of the river Loe is caught, as it creeps humbly on its way to the lakes. On the other side, the mountains throw up a huge wall. Bidding good-bye to the little grove, vegetation seems to fear to enter the desolate, sterile places in the throat of the Gap. Where the river widens, at Cushvalley Lough, the industrious echo-makers most usually greet the visitor. One has scarcely recovered from the warmth of their courteous welcome, when some suggestive volunteer, aborigine to the place, with a "Mr. Bugler, God spare you your wind," secures their services; although you do not call the tune, you are expected to pay the musicians. But the trifle spent on the gunpowder for their cannons, or the breath from their lungs, is well repaid by the mighty mass of air they start into waves of music. Here, too, the "auxiliary forces," or pony boys, besiege us with their sure-footed, shaggy "coppaleens." They have come galloping down the pass at break-neck speed to lend us the assistance of their light cavalry. Wonderful creatures they are, these horses and riders. The peasant boys are for all the world the modern prototypes of those "rake-helly horse boys" of Queen Elizabeth's reign, who filled so many pages of the State papers. Sinew and muscle knit their loose limbs together, and, in their eyes, mild and calm as those of the quiet cattle in the field, but like the surface of their native lakes, covering unfathomed depths, they conceal souls swept by deep thoughts, and minds clouded by many memories. The long unrenewed, but still to be distinguished, Spanish strain is shown in many of their olive-tinted faces and dark features. But guides safe, and true, and courteous are they, who know every perch of the dark Pass, where at times the craggy cliffs shut out the canopy of the sky, and attempt to precipitate themselves across the track. The point where the path is narrowest, the peasants have called the "Pike." From it onward the mountains begin to recede, and the Pass is more open until, crossing a shoulder of the Purple Mountain past the three great expansions of the Commeen Thomeen Lakes, into which St. Patrick is said to have driven the last serpent, we suddenly come on a surprising spectacle of magnificent scenery. Here, from the head of the Gap, we see the Upper Lake spread beneath, to the west, Coomeenduff, or the Black Valley, dark as the valley of the shadow of death, in charming contrast with the stern grandeur of the mountains. Their melancholy seems to reign supreme; the long valley is steeped with shadows in which several lakes are set, the light upon which only heightens the sublime darkness of the surroundings. The longest of these lakes is called Lough Nabricderg, or the "Pool of the Red Trout." Far and wide beneath us lies what, in the old times, was MacCarthy More's country, and into which so often the Fiery Cross was sped, when the chief of the great clan went into action.

Ruskin's ideals of mountains as the great cathedrals of the earth, with their gates of rock, pavements of cloud, choirs of stream and stone, altars of snow, and vaults of purple, traversed by the continual stars, can nowhere be realized more readily than in Killarney. Here the mysterious summits, warm with the morning tints or evening's glow, will delight and refresh again and again, and reflect to us imperishable memories. Crossing the Flesk, if Mangerton be the desired point, seven good miles are to be traversed. From the Muckross, a short detour will, if desired, lead to Flesk Castle, standing on a finely wooded hill above the wide sweeping river. Eastward, along the Kenmare road, and southward for a mile, the mountain path is met. From here, either on foot or on a pony, the ascent of Mangerton may be made. The first important object that comes in view is Lough Kittane, at the eastern base of the mountain. It is nearly five miles in circumference, and its waters contain four islands. The ravine behind the lake, with Mangerton on the west and Crohane mountain on the east, is the "mustering place of the winds," Coomnageeha. In this ravine the Blackwater flows. There are two small lakes, Loughnabraude and "the Lake of Beech-crowned Rock," Lough Carrigaveha. Away in the bed of the mountains is Keimva Lochlin—the pass of the Danes—reminding the historian of "Stern Lochlin's sons of roving war," and Dereenanawlar, or "the little oakwood of eagles." Moving still higher, eastward the mountains melt into the distant counties of Cork and Limerick, and beneath, the smaller highlands recall the Psalmist's description of

"The hills like the lambs of the flock."



To the left, Glown-a-Coppal, the "Horse's Glen," invites the adventurous to fathom its depths. The dark lakes lying in its shadows are shoreless, but for the gloomy rocks which overhang the water's edge. Where the ground becomes more broken and rugged, suddenly a less inaccessible path arises, and leads to the Devil's Punch Bowl, a dark tarn, beset with strange echoes that strike a death-song on the heart-strings of the superstitious. The view from the summit is very wonderful; in the foreground of the huge picture, the forest of mountain tops, while westward in the distance is the fabled and saint-blessed Mare Brendanicum of the old writers, where the fiords embroider the coast line.

Descents from Mangerton may be made due south from the eastern angle along the Oubeg to Kilgarvan, five miles east from Kenmare; by the "Horse's Glen," from Lough Garagary, across the moor to the commencement of the bridle-path. Neither way is recommended in the afternoon or without a guide. The best route to Carntuol is from the entrance to the Gap of Dunloe. There is a beaten track by the side of the waterway of the mountain stream, called "Giddagh," the bed of which is filled with glacial moraines, leading into a romantic valley, the Hag's Glen, which is shut in by the Reeks and Knocknabinaneen. The dark tarn in the Glen, as well as every object of prominence, has been seized upon by the imaginative peasants, and associated in some wise with the witch who here had her local habitation and left it its name. The track across the heather leads to the junction of two rivulets from Lough Gonvogh on the right, and Lough Callee on the left. The beginning of the summit is reached by the rough moraine pavement, and with a little perseverance the "parkeen," or "little pasture," on top is reached. Here on the wind-swept height it is interesting to find the London Pride, or St. Patrick's Cabbage, and the common Thrift flourishing The view is indescribable. Like the jaws of some huge monster, the teeth of the Reeks close in everywhere, each with its own blue lake behind. Of Killarney we see little; but seawards "everything between this end of the world and America," descent may be made, either following the flank of the hill, and half way between the two largest lakes beneath, striking for the Gap of Dunloe road, or through Coomduff to the shores of the Upper Lake.

When the tourist's time is limited, the following excursions, extending over three days, will enable him to see a good many of the points of interest:—

TOUR NO. 1. FARE, 8s. ESTATE TOLLS, 1s.

Well-appointed coaches, or other conveyances, leave the Hotel (weather permitting) at about 9.30 a.m., for a visit to the celebrated Gap of Dunloe and the grand tour of the Lakes. The route lies along the northern side of the Lower Lake for about six miles, when the exquisite mountain scenery comes in full view, rapidly assuming more interesting features until "Arbutus" Cottage is reached. Here the party must alight, and proceed on ponies, or on foot, at discretion, through the Pass to Lord Brandon's Cottage, at the head of the Upper Lake, where the boats will be in readiness. Arrangements can be made with the Manager of the Hotel, before starting, to provide ponies for 3s. each to this point. Some wonderful echoes are produced in various parts of the Pass. Luncheon will be served, before entering the boat, on one of the adjoining islands, after which the party will proceed by the Upper Lake and Long Range to the Eagle's Nest Mountain. The boat will then shoot the Rapids under the rustic Old Weir Bridge; stop a short time at the "Meeting of the Waters"; pass through the Middle Lake, and across the Lower Lake to "Sweet Innisfallen Island," to enable the party to view the ruins of the old Abbey, Abbot's Grave, and Bed of Honour; thence to Ross Castle, where the party will resume their drive to the Hotel, which is usually reached about 5.30 p.m.

TOUR NO. 2. FARE, 4s. 6d. ESTATE TOLLS, 2s.

The conveyances leave the Hotel about 10 a.m. for the drive through Mr. H. A. Herbert's beautiful demesne. The ancient ruins of Muckross Abbey are soon reached, and, after a short delay to inspect them, the party proceed by the shore of the Middle Lake, over Brickeen Bridge, pass the Colleen Bawn Rocks for Dinis Island; thence, passing the Torc Mountain, to the Cottage and Waterfall of Derrycunihy (Queen's Cottage), the property of the Earl of Kenmare, where luncheon is usually served. Returning, the party will pass under the tunnel on the Kenmare Road, and through fine scenery by road, mountain, and lake to Torc Cascade, where, by an easy footpath, fine views can be obtained of the Waterfall and Lakes; thence to the Hotel, which is usually reached about 3 p.m.

TOUR No. 3. FARE, 4s. 6d. ESTATE TOLLS, 1s.

The conveyances leave the Hotel at about 9.30 a.m., passing through the Earl of Kenmare's Deer Park to the Heights of Aghadoe, obtaining grand views of the Lower Lake, Macgillicuddy's Reeks, and Carran Tual (the highest mountain in Ireland), as also the ruins of the round tower of Aghadoe Church, thence through the Earl of Kenmare's beautiful West and Home Parks, which skirt the north-eastern shores of the Lower Lake, round Ross Island, and to the Hotel, which is usually reached about 2.30 p.m.

KENMARE AND GLENGARRIFF.

The coach drive from Killarney to Kenmare is over a fine broad mountain road, and from Mulgrove Barrack, about half way, a splendid view of the lake country can be obtained. Kenmare, as its name signifies in Irish, is at the head of the sea or beautiful bay to which it gives its name on the Roughty river. Sir William Pettie, in the seventeenth century, founded the town on lands confiscated from the O'Sullivan More. It is a market place of importance, and the Convent of the Poor Clares is famous the world over for the beautiful lace made here. The town stands on the highway between Killarney and Glengarriff, known as "The Prince of Wales' route." The coach drives through the town past the Lansdowne Arms' Hotel and into the beautiful spot which has been selected for the new hotel belonging to the Southern Hotels Company. Already young groves and plantations teem about the mansion, which is built on a natural terrace overlooking the bay, and facing the high hills of Glenaroughty, behind which the Red River rises, and the bare mountain slopes of Mucksna.

No visitor should fail, if time permits, to visit the Convent of the Poor Clares, and see the lace-makers at work. From Kenmare the train or coach may be taken to Killarney.

DRIVING EXCURSIONS IN THE VICINITY OF KENMARE.

No. 1.—Car to Goulane on old road to Killarney, walk to summit of mountain, from which a magnificent view is obtained, returning by Inchamore Cross Roads, Roughty Falls, and Suspension Bridge. 6s.

No. 2.—Car to Kilgarvan, thence to the Bird Mountain, on the Borlin Road, returning by Lounihan and Letter. Grand panoramic views of the Mangerton Mountains and Roughty Valley. 10s.

No. 3.—Car to Windy Gap on the Killarney Road, view of Gap of Dunloe and M'Gillicuddy Reeks, thence by Dirreenfeenlahid Lake and Bouchill Mountain, returning by Slieveaduff and Templemore Road. 10s.

No. 4.—Car to Blackwater Bridge and Waterfall, thence by Old Dromore and Valley of the Blackwater, returning by old road over Coomnakilla; magnificent sea and mountain scenery. 12s.

No. 5.—Car to Clonee Lakes and Glen of Inchiquin, thence to cascade at head of glen; beautiful drive along the southern shore of Kenmare Bay, affording splendid views of mountain, lake, and river. 15s.

No. 6.—Car to Derreen by the Lansdowne Road, along the shore of Kenmare Bay and Kilmackillogue Harbour, thence to Glanmore Lake by road skirting Lord Lansdowne's demesne, returning by Furniss (ancient smelting works) and Carriganine Road. 20s.

It is particularly requested that visitors requiring cars will give not less than an hour's notice at the office.

SOUTHERN HOTEL, KENMARE.

HIRE FOR FIXED DISTANCES (Driver's fee included)

Two-horse carriage. One-horse car.

From Kenmare to Parknasilla, 20s. 10s.

" " Killarney, 28s. 14s.

" " Glengarriff, 28s. 14s.

" " Caragh Lake, — 25s.

" " Waterville, 50s. 2s.

Fifty per cent. additional for return journey.

To Glengarriff the coach runs by very beautiful scenery, terminating in the lovely creek of the bay at Eccles' Hotel and by the fair height where Roche's Hotel commands the view. From Glengarriff the coach may be continued to Bantry, and the train then taken direct to Cork, along the East Bandon line; or the road may be taken through the beautiful Pass of Keimaneigh—the "Pass of the Deer"—and by the lovely lake of Gougane Barra to Macroom. Here the Cork and Macroom Railway brings the tourist back into the City of the Lee.

The road from Kenmare leads high out of the valley up the hill sides. We command a good view of Kenmare Sound, and having passed under a number of tunnels through the rock we cross the mearings into county Cork.

GLENGARRIFF



In a fair spot above the blue waters of the Bay of Bantry, Glengarriff, as a health resort, vies with its charming young rival, Parknasilla. Its climate, too, is softened by the nearness of the Gulf Stream, and yew and arbutus, as well as tropical cryptogamia and Alpine plants, overgrow every available spot along the sides of the rough defile. It is come-at-able from Cork by train to Bantry and then coach, or by coach from Killarney or Kenmare. Apart from the beauty of the situation and the mildness of its climate, Glengarriff possesses splendid facilities for sea bathing and boating. There is excellent hotel accommodation both at Eccles', on the shore of the bay, and at Roche's, in the midst of beautiful grounds, through which the Owvane, or "fair river," flows, making on its way a wild cascade. The drive from Glengarriff to Gougane Barra, through the Pass of Keimaneigh, "the path of the deer," is one of the great excursions to be made. Gougane Barra, the shrine of Saint Finbarr, is in the midst of a lonely lake near the source of the Lee. It is still the scene of "patrons" on Saint Finbarr's day, and Mass is celebrated in the open air in the middle of the lake. There is good trout fishing in the Allua and other streams in the Desmond Valley. Callaghan, the poet, has sung of it—

"There is a green island in lone Gougane Barra, Where Allua of songs rushes forth as an arrow; In deep-valleyed Desmond—a thousand wild fountains Come down to that lake, from their home in the mountains; There grows the wild ash, and a time-stricken willow Looks chidingly down on the mirth of the billow; As, like some gay child, that sad monitor scorning, It lightly laughs back to the laugh of the morning.

And its zone of dark hills—oh! to see them all bright'ning; When the tempest flings out its red banner of lightning; And the waters rush down, mid the thunders deep rattle, Like clans from their hills at the voice of the battle; And brightly the fire-crested billows are gleaming, And wildly from Mullagh the eagles are screaming."...

The "green island" is a little over half an acre in extent. In its centre is a quadrangle, with walls at parts fourteen feet thick, in which are eight cells or cloisters rudely arched over. Within, on a raised platform, is a large cross with five steps ascending to it. There is a large flagstone here with an inscription, giving directions how "the rounds" are to be performed on the vigil and forenoon of the feast days of St. Finbarr and St. John the Baptist, to whom there is a special cultos all over Munster. The road from Gougane runs through Inchigeela and Ballingeary by a wild stretch of river inches, called the Gearagh, to Macroom, where the old Castle and Convent are worth visiting. In the latter the kindergarten system has been introduced with great success. It is also here that the Gaelic Feis or Festival is held for the locality, which contains a large percentage of Irish-speaking people, including numbers of children. From Macroom train runs direct to Cork. In the visitors' book at Inchigeela Hotel some vagabond rhymester penned the following farewell:—

Sweet Inchigeela, fare thee well, to-morrow we depart On Mrs. Brophy's outside car, for Gougane B. we start; I add my mite of doggerel to all I have read here, And put my X to all that's writ of this hotel's good cheer.

O charming Inchigeela, were mine the poet's pen, How I would do the Longfellow, in praising rock and glen; Among thy mountains, hills, and lakes, six happy days we passed, And sigh to think the day draws near that's doomed to be the last.

We've climbed the rocky mountains, we've plodded o'er the plain, We've bid a wild defiance to the drizzling, drenching rain; And yielding to the influence of your coquettish weather, We've grilled beneath the sunshine on thy "tick" infected heather.

O lovely Inchigeela! O cosy Lake Hotel! O Hannah! best of waiting-maids, and civilest as well; O were I not so sleepy, a great deal more I'd say, But I must grasp my pilgrim's staff and wend my onward way.

From Cromwell's Bridge, at Glengarriff, the road runs to Berehaven, where there is an old Castle of the O'Sullivan's and some splendid caves. Cromwell's Bridge, of which one arch only now remains intact, is said to have been built here to facilitate the march of the Protector on his return from Dunboy Castle, he having threatened, if the bridge was not erected on his return, he would hang a man for every hour he was delayed. Bantry, or the White Strand, is a thriving town, a pleasant drive from Glengarriff. Here the French fleet, with Wolfe Tone on board, purported landing in the winter of 1797; but, like the Armada, were scattered by a hurricane. Bantry House, the residence of the White-Hedges family, is beautifully situated on the side of the bay.



The Cork and Bandon Railway from Bantry is connected with most of the towns on the Cork coast. From Skibberreen, the famous fishing village of Baltimore may be visited. The Piscatorial School is doing good work, and is an enduring monument to the philanthropy of the Baroness Burdett-Coutts. Innisherin Island, in Baltimore Harbour, was an old fortress of the O'Driscolls—and in particular of "Finnen O'Driscoll, the Rover"—of whom it is told:—

"The men of Clan-London brought over Their strong ships to make him a slave; He met them by Mizen's wild headlands, And the sharks gnaw their bones 'neath the wave."

Baltimore was sacked in the early seventeenth century by Algerine pirates, and all the able-bodied inhabitants sold into slavery. These pirates were finally put down by the intrepidity of the Commonwealth seamen. Kinsale, also on the coast, is a remarkable old town; there James II. landed on his ill-fated visit to Ireland. Bandon, beautifully situated on the broad river of that name, was long the Derry of the South. The memory of these "good old times" only now remains, and Bandon is the centre of many successful industries.

For information as to Sport to be had in the Killarney District, see end of this volume, where particulars are given as to Cycling, Fishing, &c.



The Lakes and Fiords of Kerry.

The Grand Atlantic Tour—Caragh, Cahirciveen, Valencia, Waterville, Parknasilla, Kenmare, &c.

The beauty of Killarney is not without a rival, and that even "next door" to it in its very own kingdom of Kerry. Leaving behind the soft-swelling hills, deep-eyed lakes and dark mountains, we speed southward and westward to other lakes and mountains kindred to what we have already seen. It is for these lovely lands that the Gulf Stream crosses the Atlantic to kiss, that we are making over the wide-armed railway which clasps the most picturesque scenery in the country within its embrace. Starting from Killarney for Valencia, we leave the train to continue its journey northwards to Tralee, at Farranfore Junction. While changing into the carriages for the south-west coast, where

"The mountains kiss high heaven, And the waves clasp one another,"

one look round reveals the amphitheatre of hills. Westward, whither we are going, the hills above Glenbeigh point our road to where the Atlantic meets the shore. To the eastward, where the morn, in russet mantle clad, walks o'er the dew, the line of far-piercing spears, Mangerton, Torc, Glena, Toomies, and the Reeks extend. At Killorglin (twenty-four miles rail), with a wide-spanning viaduct, we cross the Laune, wending its way from the Lakes to Dingle Bay. Here the ruins of an old Knights Templar Castle remain to remind us of the historic past. For five-and-twenty miles from this place onward, the route runs over the southern shore-line of Dingle Bay. Some five miles from Killorglin, in a secluded nest of old trees beneath the mountains, lies Caragh Lake.

"Long, long ago, beyond the space Of twice ten hundred years; In Erin old there lived a race Taller than Roman spears."



And in their romances and love-songs, Caragh was tenderly mentioned, for was it not here that Dermot sheltered Grania in the bowers of the quicken-trees? All who have read the fine old Finnian romance, "The Pursuit of Diarmuid and Grainne," which tells the iliad of their flight across ancient Erin, will remember that here on the shores of Kerry he met his enemies and discomfited them. In the mists westward from the lake is the hill-summit, Seefin, where the disconsolate son of MacCool sat. For long this little paradise has remained forgotten by scenery-seeking men, but now that it is re-discovered, it will enthral all comers. The lake, sheltered under the cloak of the hills, is six miles long, and all around its coasts are things of beauty, green velvet mosses, dark broom and heather-clad hills, with rowan trees interspersed throughout. The grisly mountains are glistening with silver threads—small streams that hasten to see themselves reflected in the lake. Far from the busy haunts of men, in a sleepy hollow only five minutes' walk from the railway station, the Southern Hotel Company has secured a delightful site for their fine hotel. If nature has done great things for Caragh, "filthy lucre," too, has done much, and here is everything to help the invalid, the sportsman, or "the common or garden" tourist to take advantage of the charming pleasure and health resort. For the fisherman there are almost endless opportunities. There is excellent salmon and trout fishing in the Caragh Lake, and also in the Caragh, Carahbeg, Ougarriv, and Meelagh Rivers, while within easy reach are Lakes Acoose, Cloon, Coomlonkir, Oulagh, Loughnakirkna, Corravoula, and Nabrackdarrig, all of which would gladden the heart of old Izaac Walton. Over twenty-five thousand acres of the best shooting in Kerry is reserved for the use of guests. It comprises principally grouse, woodcock, snipe, duck, wild goose, and plover. Both banks of the Caragh River, which is carefully preserved, have also been secured. Dooks, in the vicinity, has been selected for an excellent nine-hole golf course, of which guests, as honorary members, are entitled to take advantage. A flag-station on the railway brings the links within easy walking distance. The grand strand along the shore gives every opportunity of bathing. Across the beautiful Dingle Bay rises Mount Brandon (3,127 feet), and Dunmore Head, out at the edge of the ocean, has the Blasket Islands scattered around its coast, the treacherous rocks of which were so fatal to the Spanish Armada. By car from the hotel to Blackstones Bridge, returning by boat through the lake, is a short tour of many attractions. Beneath, at one side, lie the bright waters of the bay; on the other the dark waters of the lake. The Killorglin road is reached about a mile from Acoose Lake, and then following the declivity by a mountain stream, we get a good view of Gort-na-gloran Mountain, on the east of the lake, and see in the distance the fishing hamlet of Glencar, with the Glencar Hotel high up on pasture ground, surrounded by a cordon of green fir trees. Except in the Swiss valleys and parts of Norway, there is no scenery in Europe to compare with an inland route from Caragh to Parknasilla. It lies across the mountains

"Where the wandering water gushes In the hills above Glencar; In pools among the rushes, That scarce could bathe a star,"

through wild scenery between the gorges of the mountains, and into Ballaghbeama Pass. Beneath, in a winding valley, lies Lough Brin, turning from which we come into the valley of the Eskdhu, or Blackwater, and follow it amid the beeches until it falls into the sea.



Leaving Caragh Lake, the railway line follows the flow of the river, the next station being Glenbeigh, where there is a growing watering-place. The strand is particularly fine, extending over two miles. There is a good hotel, with golf links, beside plenty of fishing and boating. Coomasaharn—the wonderful lake in the vicinity—it has been correctly said is surrounded by precipices more awful than anything to be found nearer home than the Alps or Pyrenees—clinging to the mountain side, at a height of several hundred feet above the sea, with here a cutting or embankment, and there a mountain gorge, in which a lovely waterfall is almost lost to sight in a labyrinth of foliage.

Mountain Stage and Kells are passed, and the train glides down an incline to Cahirciveen and Valentia Harbour. Cahirciveen, the birthplace of Daniel O'Connell, is the most westerly town in the three kingdoms. It lies with its back up against the Iveragh Mountains, and facing the blue waters of Dingle Bay. Only since the road was cut across the hills to Valentia in later years has it come to be of importance. In 1803 there were only fifteen houses here, and the beginning of its uprise in the world was when O'Connell got it made a market town. But in legends of the past it is a place of fame, and received its name from Sive, one of the beautiful daughters of the great monarch, Owen More. Carhan House, where the Liberator spent his childhood (but was not actually born, as alleged), the ruins of which now only remain, may be seen a short distance outside the town.



Two charming fishing harbours under Knocktubber Mountain are worth seeing, Councroum, "the Haven's Bend," and Coonana, which is called after the woman who bore the great Finn. Here, the mighty fighter of the old days, "Conn of the Hundred Battles," fought no less than thirteen of his fields, and three pre-historic forts remain to bear testimony to the past—Cahir-na-cahal, Cahirgal, and Castlequinn.



Ballycarbery's ruined castle, too, deserves attention. In ancient times it was the fortress of Carbery O'Shea, whose tide-swept tomb is still to be seen. Then it passed into the hands of Owen More's descendants, and from them to the O'Connells. When the Spaniards sent their "ale" over to Erin, and the Kerry women borrowed one another's cloaks to go to Spain to sell eggs and dulisc, Ballycarbery, commanding the harbour's mouth, was a place frequented by mariners and merchantmen from many a Spanish port. There is a story of Morgan of the Wine and a Spanish Captain worth re-telling. Two O'Connells lived in Ballycarbery together, one brother, Shawn, occupying the lower portion, and the other, Morgan, living in the upper apartments. Both at the same moment invited a Spanish captain, who had come into the port, to dine with them. The foreigner, embarrassed by their hospitality, and not wishing to show an undue preference—as neither brother would give way—agreed to give his company to whichever gentleman had his repast cooked first. The brothers repaired with speed to the castle, and Morgan was chagrined when he had mounted to his rooms, to find that Shawn had barricaded the entrance behind him, to prevent his servants from drawing water to cook the dinner. But he was not to be foiled, for, broaching a cask of wine, he cooked in it what he wanted, and as his dinner was first prepared, the Spaniard and his brother Shawn were his guests! In the wars of the Commonwealth the castle was reduced. Derriana Lake, in the bed of the mountains—with wisps of mist on its further shores—is like a dream picture. The fair isle floating in its centre is freighted down with oak and arbutus trees standing out in relief against the mountain, and reflected in the mirror-faced waters. The coloured setting of the surroundings is exquisite. The cliffs bristle crest high with rigid firs, the young oak copse is entangled with an undergrowth of guelder rose, and in the sedges near the heron-frequented reeds, white water lilies open their wonderful eyes. Close by, Cloonaghlin Lake, when it is dark with mountain shadows and frowning clouds, is sufficiently desolate to awe the least susceptible, but when auspiciously the sky is brightened, we feel—