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HAPPY and expectant, as two young cricketers, who, having made no “end of a score” in their first innings, go forth a-gain to the wicket, we started next morning in the currus militarius, or Car of Miles, for another joyous day at Killarney. Stopping at the entrance of the town, we went into the Cathedral (R.C.), a very handsome edifice of beautiful proportions, in the severe, Early-English style. The carving in stone over the high altar, in the Chapel of the Sacrament, and especially in the exquisite symmetry of the figures in the arches of the doorways, is exceedingly chaste and clear, and some Connamara marble about one of the lesser altars has a very pleasing effect. Not so the numerous confessionals, which, with their new wood and bright drapery, are somewhat suggestive of wardrobes, and detract, as novelties always do, from the ecclesiastical aspect of the interior.

Hard by, upon the hill, stands the spacious Asylum for the Insane, sadly reminding us of poor Pugin, who designed the Cathedral; and, less painfully, of Swift's last act of penitent charity, the bequest of £12,000, nearly all he had to bequeath, for the erection of a similar institution.

Egans Bog-oak and Arbutus warehouse well deserves a visit. Here you learn from a ledger, opening, as ledgers will, at a brilliant galaxy of noble names, which makes a commoner's eyes wink, how the Right Honourable the Earl of Cash bought an elaborate table for my Lady's boudoir, and how Rear-Admiral Sir Bowline Bluff made purchase of a Backgammon board, marvellously inlaid, over which I venture to surmise, he has ere this discoursed in stormy language, when the gout and the dice have been against him. Let us tread, softly and at a distance, in these illustrious footprints, and buy our meek memorials of Killarney.

Hence onward to the Tore Cascade, descending its silver staircase amid green trees and graceful ferns,—the latter including, as we were told, the rare Trichomanes speciosum. Here there is a lovely landscape of the Middle and Lower Lakes, and there were seats wherefrom to enjoy it, until those despicable snobs, who had mutilated the trees in Rohnaines Island, threw them (sweet gentlemen!) down the waterfall. And it's O for a tÊte-À-tÊte with the principal performer, in the unbroken seclusion of a twenty-four foot ring!

But we must think more wisely, as we approach the solemn ruins of Mucross, than of punching our fellow-creatures' heads, though even here upon the very tombs, the miscreants have been at work,—disporting themselves, like filthy ghouls and vampires—and scrabbling upon the stones, as madmen will.

So much remains, both of Church and Abbye, that imagination readily supplies what is gone. Here in the Choir, where that ill-tempered looking tourist is reprimanding his wife for giving a beggar twopence, the brothers of St. Francis of Assisi were wont to sing holy psalms; and there in the Cloisters, where those two gaily-dressed French girls are admiring the gigantic yew-tree, and wondering what has become of “ce cher Jules,” (whom I apprehend to be a lover, but who comes round the corner, a poodle, dreadful to contemplate!) there

and there paced the pale Franciscan, in the sombre habit of his order, and girded with his hempencord.

Laugh on, sweet Stephanie, joyous Josephine (I heard their names from Mamma in search); but be not cruel with your charms, for Love, unloved, can still change men to monks,—forlorn and wretched, though in crowded streets, as he, of whom Percy sang:

There are some beautiful ferns among and about these ruins, but being a very poor Polypodian, or Scolopendrian (or whatever may be the scientific title of a Fernist), I only recognised the Hart's-tongue,—with its fructification arranged like a miniature plan of ships in order of battle,—and of this I gathered some very fine fronds, and put them in my hat, as will appear hereafter.

Passing through Mr. Herberts beautiful demesne, by his pleasant home (note the St. John's-wort by the wayside), his offices, and yards, wherein the newest agricultural implements cause one to sigh more than ever for landlords, resident and liberal as he,—by the copper-mine, rich and productive until the envious waters interfered, we reach the Middle Lake, and our boat, waiting for us, thereupon.

Tourists, who have written about the Irish Lakes have made but little mention of this Middle, Mucross, or Tore Lake. Like the youngest of three fair sisters, she is kept in the background by their proximity and prior claims, being, moreover, an unobtrusive, gentle beauty, of a subdued and retiring air, not demanding the admiration she deserves. But were there such a scene of tranquil loveliness six miles from any of our great manufacturing towns, it would be a refreshment, and a blessing evermore, to thousands of our weary artisans, just as “the Pool,” by Sutton Coldfield, (one of the prettiest spots in England) is the holiday resort and resting-place of the working men of Birmingham.

Leaving this sweet seclusion, and rowing under the picturesque bridge which connects the islands of Dinisk and Brickeen, we come once more into the bay of Glena, and the “cottage near a wood.” Here, climbing the hill, and choosing a position which commanded a most delightful view, we enjoyed the sandwich and scene. Descending, we were horrified to hear that “whetstone of the teeth,” the bagpipes, droning away close to our boat, and abominable to both of us as a dialogue between connubial cats, or a class of schoolboys pointing slate pencils. But “Ars longa,” art is long-headed; and so we tossed up which of us, preceding the other, should go down, pay the piper, and keep him in conversation until his friend had reached the boat. This service of conspicuous gallantry fell to me, and if ever man deserved the Victoria Cross, I won it there and then.

They say, but I don't believe it, that the red-deer, who inhabit these mountains, admire this infernal machine; and, in proof thereof, the Rev. Mr. Wright, in his Guide to Killarney, quotes the following anecdote from Playford's History of Music:—

“As I travelled some years ago near Royston, I met a herd of stags, about twenty, on the road, following a bagpipe and violin, which when the music played they went forward, when it ceased they all stood still, and in this manner they were brought out of Yorkshire to Hampton Court.” Next we rowed to O'Sullivans Cascade, foaming down its triple falls; and here finding some shamrock, and feeling very Irish, we liberally adorned our coats and hats with it. To our surprise and disappointment, upon our return, the boatmen appeared to be perfectly indifferent to this enthusiastic display of their national emblem; and it subsequently transpired, to our very severe discomfort, that we had ornamented our persons with some vulgar trefoil, which did not resemble the shamrock at all, at all. 1 It vexed one's vanity to have performed unconsciously both a Guy and a Jack-in-the-Green; and the effect produced reminded me of the answer of a Nottinghamshire labourer, in reply to my inquiries concerning his friend, “To tell you the truth, Sir, Bill's been and married his mestur, and it's gloppened him a good-ish bit!”

Leaving to our right the numerous islets of the Lower Lake (there are thirty-three of them in all), and the ruins of Ross Castle, once the home of the O'Donoghues, we pass by fair Innisfallen, and, reaching our landing-place, separate awhile; Frank starting afresh to fish, and I returning to the inn.

In a cozy corner of the coffee-room, I began now to transcribe a little poem of a sentimental kind, which had suggested itself to my thoughts during our excursion. Looking up from time to time, as Poets (like poultry) will, when drinking at the Pierian stream, I was much offended to see several persons in different parts of the room, evidently amusing themselves at my expense. A joke loses its festive character, when it falls upon one's own head, especially when that head is profusely crowned, as I soon discovered mine to be, with fronds of the Hart's-tongue Fern,—collected at Mucross, but entirely forgotten, until, bending lower than usual, I saw—

I am afraid that I did not wear my chaplet so gracefully as Dante his, in that beautiful picture by Scheffer: on the contrary, I felt quite as ill at ease and uncomfortable as an Oxford friend, who, having won a steeple-chase last winter in France, was sent for by the PrÉfÊt of the place, and crowned with a laurel wreath! What a pleasing harmony there must have been between his Bays and his dirty Boots!

Completing my manuscript, and leaving it in our joint-stock writing-case, I took a walk to the Post-Office at Killarney; and I do not think that it was at all gentlemanly in Francis to tamper with my poetry, on his return from fishing; erasing the alternate lines, and substituting rubbish of his own, as follows:—

But Frank is one of those men with whom it is impossible to be angry; and if he were standing in his thickest shooting-boots, on your most susceptible corn, he would smile in your face with such exceeding suavity, that you would almost consider the proceeding funny. So we sat down to discuss, in affectionate unison, the delicious trout which he had caught (how could I eat his fish and be sulky?), amplifying our ordinary allowance of sherry, in honour of the Naiads and Dryads in general, and of the Naiads, who look after the trout, in particular.

These libations, assisted by potheen and pipe, make us very cheery in the smoke-room. Frank declared that I talked for two hours about Absenteeism to a Lincolnshire farmer, who was fast asleep; and I certainly heard him discoursing, with a mimetic brogue, upon the state of Ireland, as though he had lived in the country all his life. So, desirous to keep ourselves “within the limits of becoming mirth,” and not to induce that metaphysical state, “quand celui qui parle n'entend rien, et celui qu'ÉcoutÉ n'entend plus,” we judiciously retired to roost.

“That very night, ere gentle sleep,” with “slumber's chain had bound me,” and “as I lay a-thinking,” I composed a little drama, for the benefit of Frank; and, rising early next morning, brought out upon the stage, or rather upon the passage,—

THE BOOTS AT THE EAGLE.

AN EXTRAVAGANZA, IN TWO ACTS. DRAMATIS PERSONAL

Frank and the Boots.

ACT I.

The scene, like the hero, is laid in bed. The room is strewed with wearing apparel in great disorder. The appearance of the candle suggests the probability of its having been extinguished by a blow from a clothes-brush. Soft music from the Somnambula which changes to “Who's dat Knocking at the Door?”

Frank, (awaking) Who's there?

Boots. Sure, your 'onour, it's Boots.

Frank. Well, what do you want?

Boots. Plaze, yer 'onour, man's brought yer a hagle.

Frank. Who sent him? How much does he want for it? Boots. Miles, yer 'onour, Miles the guide. The man'll take tin shillings, yer 'onour; and he's an illigant hagle, with a power o' bake.

Frank. Tell him I'll have it, and let him wait till I come down.

Boots. I will, yer 'onour.

Curtain

(Pulled aside by Frank, to facilitate conversation)

Falls.

Interval of half an hour, during which I go to bed in high spirits, and Frank dreams that the Zoological Society have offered him a hundred for his new purchase.

ACT II.

Scene, as before.

Frank, (aroused by renewed knocking) Now then! what the deuce is up?

Boots. There's another man, yer 'onour, wants to sell you a hagle.

Frank. Oh, hang it! Tell him I've got one, and ask the gentleman in Number Twenty whether he would like to buy it.

Boots. I will, yer 'onour.

Boots. (Returning after a putative intervieiv with No. 20.) Plaze, yer 'onour, the gintleman's bin and bought him, and I was to give his best love to yer 'onour, and his hagle's waiting in the passage, to fight yer 'onour's hagle for a new hat.

During this latter sentence, my voice, I regret to say, went back to its ordinary tone; Frank was out of bed in an instant; and I had only just time to regain No. 20, when a heavy boot went by with great velocity, falling, as Frank afterwards told me, at the feet of an astonished elderly clergyman, who, coming out of his room at that instant, and seeing my friend in his cuttysark, evidently inferred an escape from the asylum, and bolted immediately, self and door.

But sure enough, when we came down to breakfast, there was a veritable eagle at the door of the hotel, wild with anger, in an iron cage, and the property of a small tourist, who was starting for Connamara with this delectable companion, a large Arbutus table, ditto case of Killarney ferns, and a hillock of general luggage. With these impedi-menta, his estates appeared to be sufficiently in-cumbered, and I was not surprised that he declined to purchase a shillelagh, 1 with a head about the size of his own, although solemnly assured that “it had been cut in the dark moon”—an inestimable advantage doubtless, though to me the meaning of the sentence is as obscure as the luminary in question.

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Alas, alas! our own luggage is now brought down, and we are awaiting our bill somewhat curiously, after the recent revival in the Times 2 of complaints, commenced by Arthur Young in 1776, and repeated by Mr. Wright in 1822, on the subject of Killarney charges. But we both spoke in favour of the bill, and it was carried through the house (vi the lobby, to the bar) without any division, except that of the sum total between Frank and myself. You cannot have guides, and horses, and boats, and buglers (especially where the demand is temporary and irregular), without paying highly for them; but these expenses are fairly stated before they are incurred, and decrease materially if you prolong your stay (as we would fain have done), and begin to find your own amusement, afoot, or in a boat.

Farewell, Killarney!—How often, far away from thy scenes of beauty, have I, leaning back with closed eyes, beheld thee, pictured by memory, and engraved by fond imagination! How often have I essayed to realize thee in the subtle semblances of Art!—How often, in the clouds of sunset (and here most happily), have I rejoiced to trace thy tranquil waters and thy tree-clad hills!—and still, as some lover, clasping with a sigh the likeness of his darling, yearns for her living self, so long I for that happy hour when I shall return to thee, gladly, as thine eagles soaring homeward, and see thee face to face.