THE omnibus took us to the town of Killarney, and there we mounted the Glengarriff Car. People do not look particularly wise when seated, in a public street, upon a vehicle to which no horses are attached; but we were anxious to secure our places on “the Lake side,” and being surrounded by the pretty dealers in arbutus-ware (there were two, who, I am convinced, could have persuaded St. Senanus to buy a set of blue-bottle studs in bog-oak), we did not feel at all uncomfortable. But even Irish cars must fulfil their mission; and we started at last, bristling with paper knives.

Halting awhile, to take up passengers at the Mucross Hotel, we were again besieged by another bevy of these fancy timber merchants; and here a little scene occurred, which, however trivial it may appear from my feeble account of it, was very touching in reality. A woman, who had been, you could see, as pretty in her prime as the prettiest of her younger companions, but whose beauty was fast fading away, came and offered her basket to a coarse specimen of the genus “Gent,” who was seated on our side of the car, and who very abruptly, and thoughtlessly I dare say,—

repulsed her, saying, “that he should buy from the young uns if he bought at all.” I saw a look of intense pain pass over her face, as though she were hurt at heart; and, although the others made way for her, with sweet sisterly kindness, when Frank called her to him, and though he bought her most elaborate bracelets, and I a box of cunning workmanship, designed, I believe, for gloves, but subsequently used by a small niece of mine as a bed for her youngest doll, the sliding lid, drawn up to the sleeper's chin, forming a counterpane of unrivalled splendour; although, I say, we did all in our power to comfort, the storm-clouds, when we left, hung heavily over her, and the first rain-drops glistened in her pale-blue eyes.

Take heed, ye maidens beautiful (I feel a little saturnine this morning, and shall put no more lemon in my punch, whatever Francis may say), be ye Belles of the Park or the Pattern, to this extremity ye must come at last! You, Lady Constance Plantagenet, who promised to waltz with me at the County Ball, and pretended to have forgotten (though it was written upon those gem-studded tablets), when Lord Hanwell (he has at least three slates off his roof, and always went, when in the Artillery, by the sobriquet of “Lincoln and Bennett,” being notoriously as mad as two hatters), was pleased to invite you to the dance! And you, Susan Holmes, beauty of our village, looking coldly now at Will Strong, the keeper, the hardest hitter in “our Eleven,” and the handsomest fellow in the parish, because the young squire's friend, with the big moustache (Will wanted to know whether he came from Skye), made a fool of you at the Servants' Ball! You, Lady Constance, ignoring your engagements, and you, Susan Holmes, oblivious of the fact that your papa is only a blacksmith; be assured, both of you, that the light will fade from those flashing eyes, and the roses will be blanched on those glowing cheeks, and that—

What moral deduction can I draw but this:—Marry, marry, ye damsels beautiful, the men whom ye love at heart; and so perpetuate your loveliness, and live again in your daughters!

The cold salmon, on which we lunched at Kenmare, was so especially delicious, that when I turned to Frank, an hour afterwards, on the car, and asked him what o'clock it was, not perceiving that he was asleep, he murmured something about “a slice of the thin;” and the tourist in Ireland finds this fish so good and abundant, that he almost begins to apprehend “a favourable eruption” of scales, and feels disposed to snap at the larger flies which come within the prehensiveness of his dental powers.

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The little town of Kenmare is very pleasantly and healthfully placed. Mr. Frazer says that the bay, by which it stands, is the most beautiful in all Ireland, but we did not see enough of it to corroborate this grand eulogium. With the exception of the handsome Suspension Bridge, neat Church, and National Schools, the buildings are mean and miserable. To judge from the size of the Post-Office and “Bridewell,” there is very little correspondence or crime. At the broken windows of “the Female Industrial School,” we saw two young girls, of such industrious habits, that they had not had time to wash themselves. “The Dispensary,” I presume, had cured everybody, for we saw no signs of surgeon, surgery, or patients,—only a dingy old hen in the passage, who, probably, had overlayed herself, or had contracted that prevailing malady, “the Gapes,” the name whereof makes one yawn in writing it. Undoubtedly, the edifice which pleased us the most, was a narrow, tumble-down hut of two small stories, and one of these securely shuttered, which announced itself to the world as “Michael Brenan's Tea and Coffee Rooms, with Lodging and Stabling.

Leaving Kenmare (and is not that a sweet little cottage, on the right as you rise the hill, with the hydrangea glowing amid the dark evergreens, like hope in seasons of sorrow?), we met some scores of the peasantry, grave and decorous, on their way, the driver told us, to a funeral. Whence did they come? Between Kenmare and Glen-garriff we saw very few habitations, yet troops of children came running after the car as heretofore, amply demonstrating that the Irish Paterfamilias knows more of Addition and Multiplication than of the Frenchman's Rule-of-Three (“two boys and a girl are a family for a king”), and ever finds himself in a satisfactory position to converse with his enemies in the gate. The stern Lycurgus, who, according to Plutarch, was so very severe upon the unmarried Spartans, that he made them walk in procession, more scantily' draped than their statues, though the promenade took place in winter, and compelled them to sing songs derisive of celibacy, chaffing themselves to music, as they walked along,—would be gratified indeed, if he could revisit the earth, and see what Ireland is doing with a grand fecundity, for the Census of 1861.

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The vestments of these juveniles again attracted our notice, reminding us—

for some of them must have been about as cool as Cupid, and suggesting that impatience, with regard to apparel, which characterised of old even the Kings of Ireland.

Henry Castide, selected on account of his knowledge of the language to teach and Anglicise four Irish Kings, who had sworn allegiance to Richard, relates in a conversation with Froissart, that these royal personages “had another custom, which I knew to be common in this country, which was the not wearing breeches. I had, in consequence, plenty of breeches made of linen and cloth, which I gave to the Kings and their attendants, and accustomed them to wear them. I took away many rude articles as well in their dress as other things, and had great difficulty at the first to induce them to wear robes of silken-cloth, trimmed with squirrel-skin, or minever, for the Kings only wrapped themselves up in an Irish cloak.” 1

This cloak, no doubt, very much resembled the garment worn by that Irish chieftain, of whom Sir Walter Scott, when in Ireland, related an anecdote, very highly-seasoned, to the Squireen, and who, during one of the rebellions against Queen Elizabeth, was honoured by a visit from a French Envoy. “This comforter of the rebels was a Bishop, and his union of civil and religious dignity secured for him all possible respect and attention. The Chief, receiving him in state, was clad in a yellow mantle ('to wit, a dirty blanket,' interposes the Squireen), but this he dropt in the interior, and sat upon it, mother-naked, in the midst of his family and guests by the fire.” 2 After this aristocratic pattern was fashioned, I suppose, the mantle of Thady Quirk, of which he tells us (in “Castle Rackrent”), “it holds on by a single button round my throat, cloak fashion,” so that Thady could as promptly prepare himself for repose, as that heroine of whom the poet sings,—

There is magnificent mountain scenery, naked as the chieftain, but much more interesting, between Kenmare and Glengarriff, so wild and stern, and desolate exceedingly, a solitude so complete and drear, that, were Prometheus bound upon these craggy rocks, he would be relieved to see the cruel vulture hungrily stooping for his foie-gras. Honour and thanks to the genius which designed, and to the patient energy which perfected, a way over these rugged Alps. Ireland must acknowledge her obligation to the stranger, for a Scotchman, Nimmo, made her most difficult roads, and an Italian, Bianconi, carries us over them.

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Reaching the summit, we pass through a tunnel, hewn in the solid rock (why do we use this adjective always, as though rocks were ordinarily in a state of fusion?), and leave county Kerry for Cork.