THERE are objects, I doubt not, in the well-cultivated country which lies between Cork and Dublin, well worthy of special notice, but we did not pause to observe them, passing once more the pretty town of Mallow, and the Limerick Junction, reminded at Thurles of the famous Synod, and longing, as we passed the Curragh (Ireland's Newmarket), for a gallop over its green, elastic sward.

The latest intelligence, which we obtained from Mark, on our arrival at Morrisson's was that Cardinal Wiseman had arrived in Dublin, and the Fair in Donnybrook. To the latter we went, as soon as we had dined, but did not meet with His Eminence, wiser in his maturity than Wolsey in his youth, for Wolsey not only went to the fair, but got there so particularly drunk, that he was put into the stocks by Sir Amyas Paulett,—if you doubt it, ask “Notes and Queries.”

The glories of Donnybrook have declined dismally since those more happy days, when Paddy

The showmen shouted, and the drums rumbled, and the cymbals clanged, and the fiddlers fiddled, but the dancing was limp and feeble, and the general effect was dreary. We visited Mr. Batty's Menagerie, and were offered a mount upon a young elephant, at the low charge of one penny. And I am glad that we declined; because the quadruped in question, having gone round the show, until it was tired of doing so, suddenly dropped upon its stern, and discharged its jockeys into the sawdust, as though they were a load of coals!

Then we visited the Theatre of Ferguson, and there a Prima Donna appeared to us, from the arrangement of her mouth, to be singing with remarkable energy; but we had no further means of verifying the supposition, as the whole House, incited by her example, was chanting at the top of its voice. And I must say that, although I stood, most uncomfortably and insecurely, on a narrow plank at the top of “the Boxes,” I never enjoyed a concert more; and I very much doubt whether the Pope himself could have resisted joining in the Chorus.

We saw nothing at all suggestive of a shindy until (to our great joy) we met a couple of our college friends, Hoare, the stroke of our boat, tall among the tallest, as Arba among the Anakims, arm in arm with little Dibdin, the coxswain (they have been sworn friends, ever since Hoare took him by the collar, and dropped him into the Isis, for some mistake in steering); and these gentlemen were armed with shillelaghs, and anxious, as the old lady in the captured city, to know when the fun would begin. “For now I see,” said Hoare,—

Let us haste to Kelvin Grove—I mean, let us return to Morrisson's!”

We steamed away next morning from Kingston Quay. Looking back upon that lovely bay, I thought of the poor Irishman's most touching words, as he gazed for the last time on his native land, “Ah, Dublin, sweet Jasus be with you!” and from my heart I breathed an earnest prayer for the good weal of beautiful Ireland!

And now our “Little Tour” is over; and its story must go forth, like some small boy to a public school, to find its true place and level. It may, perhaps, receive more pedal indignities than donations of a pecuniary kind; vulgarly speaking, more kicks than halfpence; but as no severities can deprive the boy of his pleasant memories of the past, nor chase the smile from his tear-stained and inky cheek, as he sleeps to dream of home; so no criticism, however caustic, can ever mar my glad remembrance of our happy days in Ireland.

And in mine adversity, should such befall, I shall have yet another solace. Hooted, like some bad actor, from the stage, I can hide myself behind scenery, which has a charm for all, and which, like Phyllis the fair, “never fails to please.”

Cheered or condemned, whether “the Duke shall say, Let him roar again,” or the poor player shall hear

FINIS.