the mountains in their misty sublimity, and now the woods are glittering in the passing sun-light, and towering to the soft blue sky in their unrivalled verdure. We are near enough to the base of the mountain to see distinctly the character of that sea of woodland which stretches up to its gray summit. It is not composed of tiny shrubs, but of tall trees, infinitely varied in their summer tints-and at the water's edge is the bright arbutus, itself a tree in these regions. We are steering towards the little cove, at the head of the Lake and now we land at the loveliest of pleasure houses, planted under these embosoming woods in a garden rich with "flowers of all hues." There is another cottage, too, where the stranger will find a welcome. Provident has the good hostess of the Victoria been for our comforts-and there is a piece of epicurism to be gone through, for which even the best sauce of Soyer would be "wasteful and ridiculous excess "-salmon fresh from the lake, broiled upon arbutus skewers before a peat-fire. Charming Glena! We must come again to loiter in thy quiet walks. We can never be sated with thy peacefulness. We have no tourist's desire to be moving on and seeing more. We envy the statesman of whom they told us, that, coming here in an autumn afternoon, and lingering too long, the lake was suddenly lashed into fury by the rising wind, and he was compelled to stay all night in the sheltered cottage. But we must go. The bugle summons us from our reveries. We have the We have the Torc Lake to explore, before the sun sinks behind the Purple mountain.

Look, reader, upon the map of the Lakes, and trace

The

our course, for it is scarcely to be made intelligible without such help. Starting from the bay at Glena, there is a narrow inlet to the Torc Lake between Dinis Island and the Peninsula of Mucruss. But there is another way by which that Lake is entered-the broader channel on the west side of the island. continuation of that channel leads to the Upper Lake-a river scene, five miles in extent. The passage round Dinis Island into the Torc Lake is something so peculiar in its beauty, that we scarcely know how to convey a notion of its characteristics. Some of the creeks of the Thames above Windsor, and more especially a close passage between Henley and Marlow, are eminently beautiful. There the osiers lose their formality amidst banks of sedge and beds of water lilies-and the unpollarded willow drops gracefullly into the silent stream, unruffled except by the leap of the chub or the plunge of the kingfisher. But here the common river-trees are scarcely to be recognized in their exceeding verdure. The channel is not difficult because of rush or weed,-but huge masses of rock form narrow eddies where the boat can scarcely glide, and then shelve off into sheltering basins for the lilies. But the ferns! It is impossible to conceive of the beauty of a close river whose banks are completely fringed by the noble Flowering Fern, the Osmunda Regalis-(a latinized Saxon name, of which mund signifies strength)-a fern exquisite in its grace, and gigantic in its proportions. Those formal rushes of our southern streams, how can we tolerate them, when we have seen the immense ferns of Dinis o'erarching the little river with their pendulous heads,-sheltering

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!"

The sun is westering as we enter the Torc Lake. We are in the most profound solitude. Scarcely a breath of wind creeps over the waters. We gaze in silence on the noble mountain from which the lake derives its name; when the mellow notes of Spillane's bugle for the first time soothe and gladden us. Over the water floats the tender air of 'Eileen a Roon' the gem of Irish music five centuries ago-plagiarized into 'Robin Adair' in Scotland-naturalized in France, 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

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 rushes strewn with creamy agrimony, and the early call of the heath-cock alone shall break their slumber of love." We go coasting round the Lake; we see the distant Torc Waterfall-a pencil of light; we listen to other songs and other bugle-notes; and, steered into one of the caverns of the rock, learn that we are in O'Donaghue's wine-cellar,-a fitting place for one cup of kindness" with old and new friends. And now for a long pull homeward. (Cut No. 4.)

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,

Not a gleam of sun to alloy it;
From my heart I wish

I was but a fish,
What a glorious place to enjoy it.

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,
To overhang the world.”

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,-
How, clift by clift, rocks bend and lift
Their frowning foreheads as we go.

The giant-snouted crags, ho! ho!
How they snort, and how they blow!
Through the mossy sods and stones,
Stream and streamlet hurry down,
A rushing throng! A sound of song
Beneath the vault of Heaven is blown!
Sweet notes of love, the speaking tones
Of this bright day, sent down to say
That Paradise in Earth is known,
Resound around, beneath, above
All we hope and all we love
Finds a voice in this blithe strain,
Which wakens hill, and wood, and rill,
And vibrates far o'er field and vale,
And which Echo, like the tale

Of old times, repeats again."

On

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. 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." (Cut. No. 5.) 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. We would rather he would have the shilling, and save the powder. It is a failure. 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

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:

"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 all 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 things (except their beds), they were and lived as common. So the fourth day I ordained other tables to be covered in the hall, after the usage of England, and I made these four kings to sit at the high table, and their minstrels at another board, and their servants and varlets at another beneath them, whereof by seeming they were displeased, and beheld each other and

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 apparelled 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."

It is pleasant to contrast the frank fellowship of the native kings towards their minstrels and servants, with the formal etiquette of the Anglo-Norman court. There were nobler feelings in these despisers of "gowns of silk furred with minever," than in the luxurious Richard. Two centuries after, Sir John Harrington saw the great rebel, Hugh Tyrone, and wondered at the love of his retainers. If the old brotherhood were kept up, there