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."

Photo—Lawrence, Dublin.

Caragh River and Lake.

Photo—Lawrence, Dublin.

Southern Hotel, Caragh Lake.

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.

Photo—Lawrence, Dublin.

Pass of Ballaghbeama.

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.

Photo—Lawrence, Dublin.

On the Coast near Glenbeigh.

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.

Photo—Lawrence, Dublin.

At Glenbeigh.

Photo—Lawrence, Dublin.

Lake Coomasaharn.

Photo—Lawrence, Dublin.

Cahirciveen.

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—

"Truly the light is sweet, and
A pleasant thing it is for the
Eyes to behold the sun."

The shadows recede into the depths of the water or the hollows of the hills, the many colours of the trees show themselves; and song-birds begin anew their music, as though a great hawk had been near, and had passed them by scathless.

VALENCIA ISLAND

May truly be termed the "Next parish to America," and should be visited for its noble cliffs, wild headlands, and wonderful jungle of fuschia trees. From Valencia Harbour a ferry, manned for upwards of a century by the O'Neills, brings passengers and mails across to Knightstown, the principal village, and a busy port of industry during the fishing season. Glenleam, the Knight of Kerry's residence—about one mile inland—is surrounded by beautiful gardens, where, besides arbutus and myrtle, many tropical exotics thrive. The fuschias form a thick glade, and the trunks of several of them almost defy the ordinary axe or saw. There are on the island, besides holy wells, a number of soutterains and cairns, that

"Sit upon the ground
To tell sad stories of the death of kings."

Photo—Lawrence, Dublin.

At Valencia.

Photo—Cuthbert, Valencia.

Valencia Harbour.—Fishing Fleet.—Entrance to Valencia Harbour.

Photo—Lawrence, Dublin.

Cliffs at Valencia.

Irish is freely spoken on the island, and if properly introduced, the visitor may be able to hear many old stories of Finn and his companions, the Gabawn Saior, and other heroes of the peasants' heart. Thick as mists at morn legends hover about the island, and beyond the great Slate quarries may be seen many caves of great interest. There is a tradition on the island that St. Vincent Ferrar landed there. The harbour offers a deep and sheltered anchorage, and was formerly much frequented by smugglers, whose cave is still shown. Paul Jones often put in here, and on one occasion pressed into his service a number of fishermen, whom he took from the neighbouring fishing grounds. None of them returned except one, who had long been imprisoned in France, but he came home "with a stocking full of doubloons," and his children's children are still known as "The Paul Jones's."

At Brayhead,

"Where the broad ocean leans against the land,"

there is a splendid view from nearly eight hundred feet above the sea. The rocks around the coast, encircled with white foam, make a beautiful contrast to the grey and emerald and gold of the sandy coves and green hills.

Photo—Lawrence, Dublin.

Cliffs at Valencia.

Dolus and Bolus Heads reach far into the ocean. The Skelligs, "the most western of Christ's fortresses in the ancient world," raise their heads to the south, while northwards the Great Blasket, a mountainous island, and its eleven brothers, with Innisvic Killane, may be seen. On the 10th September, 1588, the Armada ship, Our Lady of the Rosary, of 1,000 tons, was wrecked in the Blasket Sound; among the many who perished was the Prince of Askule, natural son to King Philip of Spain. Around the coast line there have been many wrecks, and not a few are the pathetic stories still told of them on the island.

The last wreck of importance gave another opportunity for the intrepid islanders to show what stern stuff they were made of. Under the captaincy of Mr. Alexander O'Driscoll, the volunteers put off to the wreck, and despite of a sea running high, and the buffeting of a great storm, saved the lives of the crew, and rendered full salvage. While on the island, a visit should be paid to the Anglo-American Cable Company's Station, care being taken beforehand to go through the formality of applying to the Managing Director (26, Old Bond-street, London, E.C.) for an order. Every facility is extended by the courteous local officials.

THE SKELLIGS—ST. MICHAEL'S ROCK.

From Valencia, or from across the channel at Portmagee, where there is a thriving fish-curing industry, the Skelligs can be reached in favourable weather. Standing high above the green billows that encircle them with collars of white foam, they repay every trouble taken to inspect them. The Little Skellig, a fantastic rock, with a great arch like a flying buttress under which for centuries the seas have churned deep, is almost inaccessible. It is a great breeding ground for gannet, with which, during the breeding season, its sides are white as the waves below.

Photo—Lawrence, Dublin.

Skellig.

So unused are these magnificent birds to being disturbed by intruders that even when within oar's length of them, they remain passive and unscared. The Great Skellig swings high its cliffs seven hundred feet above the water. Clinging to the ridge of its impressive rocks "like swallows' nests" are the round roofs of the beehive cells which of old formed a citadel of Christianity. To Saint Michael the Archangel, guardian against all the powers of darkness, the isle is dedicated. Its history is of old date, for here Milesius buried the beloved son, Ir, that the thieving waters robbed of his soul. Here "the slanting, full-sailing ships" of Daire, on their way to the great battle of Ventry Harbour, paused in their march along the deep. Here, too, in recording times, was the great hero-king of the Norse, Olaf Iryggveson, baptized.

A little cove, deep in the recess of a cavern, makes a landing stage, only to be attempted at favourable times. An easy path leads halfway round the island; then, mounting a flight of steps, the visitor beholds, spread before him, a green valley, the one patch of richness on the desolate rock. This is Christ's Saddle, from which, with reverent hearts, the "Way of the Cross" may be traversed, ending in the heart of Skellig-Michael. Each of the fourteen Stations have descriptive Gaelic names, such as "The Stone of Pain," where our Saviour falls the first time; "The Rock of the Woman's Piercing Caoine," where His Mother and the Holy Women have met. Lonely and deserted, none should enter these hallowed places but with feelings of reverence.

WATERVILLE.

The morning stillness, broken by the clear blast of the postillion's horn, reminds the visitor lingering lovingly over the shores at Cahirciveen that the coach for the coast tour is ready. With a crack of the whip that would do credit to Will Goldfinch, in the coaching days of old, the driver urges on his team, and the blooded four-in-hand cut their way clear of the town. The tour along the Atlantic between Cahirciveen and Kenmare is nearly fifty miles, and passes through the most diversified country. The eleven miles as far as Waterville is first inland, passing through dreary stretches of moorland, where the small black Kerry cattle manage to thrive, until Ballinskelligs Bay suddenly comes in sight. Bolus Head reaches out its great arm into the sea, to shelter the Bay from the winds. At one side may be seen the little town of Ballinskelligs, with its white Cable Station; and in at the head of the waters, beyond where the Inny river joins the sea, Waterville spreads itself out around the long shore. Here it lies on the little streak of land which protects Lough Currane from the embrace of the ocean. Coming down the hill, out of the town, the delusion is that this great fresh-water lake is but itself a bay, the mouth of which is concealed from view, but not so, for its waters run clear and fresh, and as fishful as the Erne. It is the best free fishing lake in Ireland. Just outside Waterville the Commercial Cable Company (Mackay-Bennett system) have their extensive offices.

Photo—Cuthbert, Valencia.

Kilkenny Castle.

Kilkenny CastleSouthern Hotel, Waterville.

The road leads across the Inny, and we enter the little town by the pleasantly-situated Butler Arms Hotel. On going further, fronting the shore line, we pass the Bay View Hotel, and, following a bend in the hill, come suddenly in view of the beautiful Lough Currane, beside which, in the midst of plantations, more like a home than a well-equipped hostelry, which it is, the Southern Hotel is built. Lough Currane is eight miles in circumference, and its shores are fretted with thousands of inlets. Through the windows of the Hotel, a charming view is had of the mountains which encircle the lake. On one side green slopes and pleasantly wooded heights meet the eye, and on the other, old familiar grey-faced mountains, with their heads raised on high among the clouds, shining, changing, and fading in the silver mists. The surface of the lake, calm-faced and deep-welled, here and there lifts up to be admired beautiful islands. Here a saint made his temporal home, and in Church Island is the beehive cell where St. Finian prayed, "in whose orisons were all our sins remembered." The ruins of the sixth century church deserve the attention of the antiquary. Away at the head of Lough Currane is Coppal, where sea trout and small brown trout abound. It, too, has charms all its own, in parts wild and untamed, but again, calm as the race of a sleeping child. Full information as to the flies suitable for the lake, and the places well to troll, may be had from the best known angler in Kerry, Teigue M'Carthy. Like Sir Roger de Coverley's friend, Will Wimble, he can tie a fly "to a miracle," and he is an enthusiastic devotee of the "gentle art." Besides the attractions for fishermen, there are thousands of acres of shooting in the vicinity. There is plenty of opportunity and accommodation for bathing by the bay, and a new Golf Links, laid out under the best professional advice, affords a further source of healthful amusement. Over the hills from Waterville the pre-historic remains of Staigue Fort may be visited. It is the best example of cyclopean stone forts that remains in Ireland, and by authoritative antiquaries is said to be at least 2,000 years old.

Photo—Cuthbert, Valencia.

Lake Currane.

Photo—Cuthbert, Valencia.

Raheen, Lake Currane.

Photo—Cuthbert, Valencia.

Arbutus Rock, Lake Currane.

EXCURSIONS IN THE VICINITY OF WATERVILLE.

Tour 1.—The conveyance will leave the Hotel at 11 a.m. for a drive to Derrynane, the historic home of the Liberator, On reaching Coomakista Pass—the highest point of the road—a gradual descent brings the party to Derrynane House, and further on to Derrynane Hotel, close to the remains of the old Abbey. Those who wish to walk can get off the car at Coomakista, and walk one and-a-half miles to Lord Dunraven's cottage, where they can meet the cars. The path winds along the shore of Derrynane Bay, and well repays those who follow it on their way to the Abbey, The party can lunch at Derrynane Hotel, and may return by the path, and meet the car at Coomakista, or drive the whole way back to Waterville. Fare for four persons, 12s.

Tour 2.—The conveyance will leave the Hotel at 11 a.m., and drive along the northern shore of Lough Currane. Crossing the Coomeragh by the Ivy Bridge, the road leads us as far as Isknamaclery Lake. At this point a unique view is obtained of Isknamaclery Lake and Lough Nabrackderrag on the right, and Loughs Namona and Cloonaghlin on the left. The party can have the option of proceeding on foot to Derriana Lake, or returning and driving along the Coomeragh to Derriana Lodge, and from thence returning to Waterville, or they can cross the Dromad Hills, and return by the river Inny. Fare for four persons, 12s.

Tour 3.—The conveyance leaves the Hotel at 11 a.m. for Saint Finan's Glen. Before entering the Glen, a fine view is obtained of the Iveragh Mountains, and even the M'Gillicuddy Reeks, and later, the Lemon Rock and the Skelligs. After luncheon in the Glen, the party will return by Bolus Head, visiting the old Abbey of Saint Michael's and Ballinskellias Castle, and (with the permission of the Superintendent) the Atlantic Cable Station. For sea and mountain combined this view cannot be surpassed. Fare for four persons, 16s.

Tour No. 4.—The conveyance will leave the Hotel at about 11 a.m., for the remarkable fort of Staigue-an-or. The route lies along the southern shore of Lough Currane for about six miles, (passing the Waterfall) as far as Isknagahenny (Coppal) Lake, and good views are obtained of both lakes. At Isknagahenny Lake the party alights, and proceeds on foot for about four miles to the fort. When the highest point of the ascent is reached, a magnificent view is obtained of Kenmare river and the islands off the coast of Beara Peninsula. The descent to the foot is easy. After luncheon the party may return either by West Cove and Derrynane to Waterville, or again ascend the mountain and return by Lake Road. Fare for four persons, 16s.

Shorter excursions can be arranged.

HIRE OF BOATS

Boat and one man, 1s. per hour, 5s. per day. Boat and two men, 2s. per hour, 10s. per day.

In no case will the charge be for less than two hours.

POSTING ARRANGEMENTS.

Hire by Time (Driver's Fee included).

	Two-horse carriage.	One-horse car.
For the first hour,	7s. 0d.	3s. 6d.
For two hours,	14s. 0d.	7s. 0d.
For each additional hour or fraction of an hour	3s. 6d.	2s. 0d.

Hire for Fixed Distances (Driver's Fee included).

	Two-horse carriage.	One-horse car.
Waterville to Caragh Lake,	—	25s. 0d.
Waterville to Caherciveen,	15s. 0d.	8s. 0d.
Waterville to Valentia,	15s. 0d.	8s. 0d.
Waterville to Portmagee,	18s. 0d.	10s. 0d.
Waterville to Derrynane,	15s. 0d.	8s. 0d.
Waterville to Parknasilla,	30s. 0d.	16s. 0d.
Fifty per cent. additional for return journey.

The coach road from Waterville, following the outskirts of Ballinskelligs Bay, insinuates itself up a dizzy height. Looking backwards, Waterville, "standing with reluctant feet" between the sea and the lake, seems to wonder which is more bewitching. Forging ahead through the mountain gaps, we pass under Coomakiska, 1,500 feet, and Beenarourke, 1,000 feet above the sea level. Clearing the gates of the mountains, we come into the open highlands above Derrynane, watching out from its post over the sea. Truly the home for a chief. Here O'Connell spent his happiest days, within the roar of the Atlantic billows, but far from the turmoil and stress of the great agitation in which his figure looms large as a giant form. Here his hospitable door flew open wide to the passing stranger, and across the hills, with the fleet-footed hound, he enjoyed the most delightful of sports, coursing! Several interesting relics of the Liberator are shown at the house of his descendant, the present proprietor. The ruins of Derrynane Abbey, in the vicinity of O'Connell's home, stand on a small peninsula, at some seasons transformed into an island by the divorcing rush of the high tides. It was a foundation of the monks of St. Finbarr, called Aghermore, such a place as that described in the life of St. Brendan, who, first of the old-world mariners, discovered the great Land of the West.

I grew to manhood by the western wave,
Among the mighty mountains on the shore;
My bed, the rock within some natural cave,
My food, whate'er the sea or seasons bore.
And there I saw the mighty sea expand,
Like Time's unmeasured and unfathomed waves;
One with its tide-marks on the ridgy strand,
The other with its line of weedy graves.
And, as beyond the outstretched waves of Time,
The eye of Faith a brighter land may meet;
So did I dream of some more sunny clime,
Beyond the waste of waters at my feet.

From Cahirdaniel village, the site of a Danish fort, the route extends directly along the Kenmare Fiord, under the foot of Crohan Mountain. The Slieve Misk and Cahar Mountains separate themselves out to win our admiration the better. They recall Lady Dufferin's words, addressed to other sweet mountains, where

"The sunlight sleeping
On your green banks is a picture rare,
You crowd around me like young girls peeping,
And puzzling me to say which is most fair;
As though you'd see your own sweet faces
Reflected in that smooth and silver sea
O! my blessing on those lovely places,
Though no one cares how dear they are to me."

Photo—Lawrence, Dublin.

Sneem.

Photo—Lawrence, Dublin.

At Sneem.

Photo—Lawrence, Dublin.

At Sneem.

On the road beneath Crohan, a mile north from Coad Church is St. Kiernan's Cell, eaten into the face of the sheer rock. In this district formerly the mines were worked and copper smelted. As the road winds along we can see Staigue-an-or, with its cyclopean mounds, lying low and dwarfed on the hillside. By the high mountains, where the coach-horn sounds sweet and awakens echoes, the road comes down into the lowlands, and from the bridge is seen beautiful landscape, with Sneem spread out in the foreground. Under lovely beechen boughs, and through a glade of oak and first we are ushered into

PARKNASILLA,

An ideal residence, hidden from the summer sun by a variegated veil of the rocky garden foliage; sheltered from the winter's blast by the Askeve Mountains and the kind shores that button themselves around its inlet sea, of which Mr. A. P. Graves has written:

"Ocean before, the summer sky above
Who could pourtray the mountains' purple smiles—
And all the opal hues of earth and heaven,
Foam fringing forests, heather-tufted Isles;
The roseate dawn—purpureal pomps of even—
And young Atlantic's petulant, shifting wiles?
Who could do aught but mar the true expression
Where all is change? Then why a record shape
Of scenes whose nature glories in succession
From wood to wave—from wave to distant cape—
Like the young poet's dream, fair beyond all possession."

Photo—Lawrence, Dublin.

At Parknasilla.

Here in the demesne lands of a Bishop's Old Palace, the Southern Hotel new palace has been built. The green turf of its lawn extends down to the water's edge. It is a land of arbutus and myrtle, of glades laden with the pink and white blossoms of oleander and rhododendron, and thick with bells of fuschias, the fair daffodils of Shakespeare and Herrick, that fade away too soon:

"Daffodils that come
Before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty."

Derreen, away in the lap of the landscape, found favour of Froude, and at Kilmackilloge he found material for his novel. The beautiful Garinish Island is like a little paradise, lost in a land where all is lovely. Around the shores, and in the sandy caves, the beautiful seals cluster, and at times are so tame as to answer the shrill whistle of the boatman, and show their lovely forms on the water's surface near at hand. We live in sceptical times, when

"The powder, the beauty, and the majesty,
That had their haunts in dale, or piney mountain,
Or forests by slow stream, or pebbly spring,
Or chasms and watery depths—all these have vanished.
They live no longer in the faith of reason."

But still here, along the old-world shores, where daylight dies, the superstitions and traditions of the pagan past still linger among them, and there is none more interesting than that which teaches the fishermen to regard these beautiful-eyed, plaintive-voiced creatures with tenderness. The souls of the dead, drowned at sea, who die out of friendship with God, go into the bodies of the seals, and there through the ages await the Trump of the Archangel to call them before the Great White Throne.

Southern Hotel, Parknasilla.

"Parknasilla is situated on the northern shore of Kenmare Bay, a bay rich in beauty, and with singularly-indented coast lines. Its well-sheltered position amidst a number of islets, thickly wooded down to the water's edge, has endowed it with unique advantages. This protective area gives to Parknasilla claims of a special character, and prevents the access to it of all winds except those coming from the warmer points, viz., south and south-west; these winds, before reaching the southern coast of Ireland, having travelled over the Gulf Stream, and being thus subjected to its moderating and balmy influence. We all recognise what elevation of the land will do for any place, particularly if it shelters that place from winds blowing from the cold quarters. Thus, mountain protection is of supreme importance in the choice of a health resort, more especially in the winter and spring seasons of the year. In this regard Parknasilla is exceptionally favoured, a mountainous range closely guarding and protecting it from the northerly and easterly winds. The combination of mountain, wood, and water gives a special charm to this locality; and a convincing evidence of the mildness of the winter and early spring here is the forward character of the vegetation, the early budding of the trees, shrubs, and flowers—all bearing testimony to the mildness of the climate. Temperature rapidly tells its tale on the vegetable world, and there can be no more reassuring proof of the equable and balmy character of the climate of a district than the early growth of flowering shrubs, plants, and table produce. The position of this favoured and sheltered sea inlet upon the isothermal map shows it to have a mean annual temperature of 52 degrees, being similar in this regard to its neighbour, Glengarriff, and registering a higher mean annual temperature than Ventnor or Torquay. The mildness of the climate in the earlier spring months is of such a character that exercise can be freely partaken of in the open air daily, without risk of chill; and this to the invalid is of paramount importance. No record has, as yet, been regularly taken of the daily sunshine, or of the rainfall, but so far as could be ascertained, the rainfall does not appear to be excessive. To sufferers from chronic or recurrent affections of the respiratory organs, Parknasilla, in the winter and early spring months, would appear to be indicated as a most desirable place of residence. I have had the advantage of two recent visits to this district, and feel convinced that, when it becomes better known, Parknasilla will prove a veritable haven of health and rest to the chronic invalid and the convalescent, as well as a delightful retreat to the busy man of the 'world's mart,' who may need a temporary repose from the worries and cares of daily life. Parknasilla is about a two hours' drive or thereabouts from Kenmare, the drive being one of exceptional beauty and interest."—Dublin Journal of Medical Science, May, 1896.

Photo—Lawrence, Dublin.

Garinish Island, Parknasilla.

DRIVING AND BOATING EXCURSIONS IN THE VICINITY OF PARKNASILLA.

Photo—Lawrence, Dublin.

Blackwater at Kenmare.

The demesne around the hotel comprises one hundred acres of beautiful land, where tropical flora flourish all the year round. The meadows trim, with daisies pied, there are on every mossy bank the dewy lips of

"Violets dim, But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes, Or Cytherea's breath."

The road to Kenmare lies high above the sea. Ardgroom is hiding under the Caha mountains, with Glenbeg Lake behind, in the little valley. Beneath Derrenamackan the lashing seas wage perpetual warfare against the rocks. By the Eskdhu, or Blackwater Bridge, amid the dense foliage of the trees, a waterfall bleats from the thicket with plaintive murmur. Then it breaks itself free, and amid rocks, and briars, and tangled underwood, rushes wildly towards the sea. Between us and the ocean is Dromore Castle, the residence of one of the heads of a sept of the O'Mahony clan. In the demesne are the ruins of Cappacross, a stronghold of the O'Sullivans. Dunkerron Castle, on the shore, gives its name to the islands in the bay.

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