Limerick, Sept. 22d, 1828.

Dearest Friend,

Limerick is the third city in Ireland, and of the kind of cities I like, old and venerable, adorned with Gothic churches and moss-covered ruins; with dark narrow streets, and curious houses of various dates; a broad river flowing through its whole length, and crossed by several antique bridges; lastly, a busy market-place, and cheerful environs. Such a city has for me a charm like that of a wood, whose dark branches, now low, now high, afford sylvan streets of various forms, and frequently over-arch the way like a Gothic roof. Modern regular cities are like a trimly cut French garden: they do not suit my romantic taste.

I was not quite well, and returned after a little walk in the town to my inn. I found a sexton of one of the Catholic churches waiting for me; he told me that they had rung the bells as soon as they knew of my arrival, and hoped I would give them ten shillings as a gratuity. ‘Je l’envoyai promener.’ In a few minutes a Protestant functionary of the same sort was announced. I asked him what he wanted. “Only to warn your royal highness against the impositions of the Catholics, who annoy strangers in the most shameless manner, and to beg that your royal highness will not give them anything:—at the same time I take the liberty to ask a small contribution to the Protestant poor-house.” (You must observe that the people of this country are extremely lavish of titles to anybody who travels with four horses.) “Go to the d——l, Protestants and Catholics,” said I in a rage, and flung the door in his face.

But this was not all; I was soon waited upon by a deputation of the catholics, consisting of the French Consul (an Irishman,) a relation and namesake of O’Connell, and some others, who harangued me, and begged to present me with the Order of the Liberator. I had the greatest possible difficulty in excusing myself from this honour, and in declining an invitation to dine with their club. We compromised the matter by my accepting the offer of two of them to accompany me all over the town as ciceroni.

I resigned myself very patiently, and was first conducted to the cathedral, a building of great antiquity, more in the style of a fortress than of a church; the architecture solid and rude, but imposing by its massiveness. In the interior I admired a carved chair of the most exquisite workmanship; it is five hundred years old, and made of bog-oak, which time has rendered black as ebony. Its rich ornaments consisted of beautiful arabesques and most curious masks, which were different on every side. The grave of Thomond, King of Ulster and Limerick, though mutilated and defaced by modern additions, is a very interesting monument. Descendants of this royal line are still in existence. The head of the family bears the title of Marquis of Thomond, a name which you will remember to have seen in my letters from London, where its possessor was distinguished for the excellence of his dinners. Ireland has many families of great antiquity, who pique themselves on never having contracted a ‘mÉsalliance,’ a practice so common among the English and French nobility, that pure unmixed blood (stiftsfÄhiges Blut,[131] as we call it in Germany) is no longer to be found in either of those kingdoms. The French nobles called these marriages for money ‘mettre du fumier sur ses terres,’ a joke not very flattering to the bride.—And many an English lord owes all the present splendour of his family to such ‘fumier.’

We quitted the church, and were proceeding to visit the rock near the Shannon, upon which the English signed the treaty after the battle of the Boyne; a treaty which they have not been remarkably scrupulous in observing. I remarked that we were followed by an immense crowd of people, which increased like an avalanche, and testified equal respect and enthusiasm. All on a sudden they shouted “Long life to Napoleon and Marshal ——.” “Good God,” said I, “for whom do the people take me? As a perfectly unpretending stranger I cannot in the least degree understand why they seem disposed to do me so much honour.” “Was not your father the Prince of ——?” said O’Connell. “Oh no,” replied I; “my father was indeed a nobleman of rather an older date, but very far from being so celebrated.” “You must forgive us then,” said O’Connell incredulously; “for to tell you the truth, you are believed to be a natural son of Napoleon, whose partiality to your supposed mother was well known.” “You joke,” said I laughing: “I am at least ten years too old to be the son of the great emperor and the beautiful princess.” He shook his head, however, and I reached my inn amid reiterated shouts. Here I shut myself up, and shall not quit my retreat to-day. The people, however, patiently posted themselves under my windows, and did not disperse till it was nearly dark.

Tralee, Sept. 23rd.

This morning I was again received with cries of “Long life to Napoleon and your honour!” And while my servant, who was seated in my carriage, and passed for Napoleon’s son, drove off in the midst of cheers and acclamations, I slipped out at a back-door, with a lad who carried my travelling bag, and took my place in the stage, which was to convey me to the lake of Killarney. My people had orders to wait for me in Cashel, where I shall probably rejoin them in a fortnight.

With my present simple exterior no human being thought of assailing me with homage; and I could not help philosophizing on this public farce, and thinking how often the desire of glory and renown leads only to disguise and false assumption. Certainly of all the dreams of life this is the most shadowy! Love sometimes satisfies, knowledge tranquilizes, art gladdens and amuses; but ambition, ambition gives only the tormenting passion of a hunger which nothing can allay,—a chase after a phantom which is ever unattainable.

In a quarter of an hour I was comfortably established in the stage-coach. The passengers inside consisted of three women; one fat and jovial, another extremely lean, and a third pretty and well proportioned. There was also a man who had the air of a pedagogue, with a long face, and still longer nose. I sat entrenched between the two slender ladies, and conversed with the corpulent one, who was very talkative. On my letting down a window she told us that she had lately been nearly sea-sick in this very coach, because an ailing lady who sat opposite to her would not allow a window to be opened on any account. That she, however, did not give it up; and after a quarter of an hour’s persuasion had succeeded in prevailing on the lady to admit of one inch of air; a quarter of an hour after another inch, and so on, till she manoeuvered the whole window open. “Excellent,” said I; “that is exactly the way in which women manage to get all they wish; first one inch, and then—as much as they want. How differently do men act under similar circumstances,” continued I. “An English writer, in his directions to travellers, says, that if anybody in the mail should insist on keeping all the windows closed, you should not enter into any ‘pour parler’ with him, but immediately thrust your elbow through the window as if by accident, beg his pardon, and quietly enjoy the cool air.” The ruins of Adair now attracted our attention, and interrupted the conversation. Further on the Shannon appeared in all its grandeur. In some parts it is like an American river, nine miles broad, and its shores finely wooded. At Lisdowel, a little place where we dined, hundreds of beggars assembled as usual about the coach. One novelty struck me; they had little wooden cups fixed at the end of long sticks, which they reached in at the window, and thus more conveniently secured the desired ‘pence.’ One beggar had built himself a sort of sentry-box of loose stones in the road, in which he seemed to remain in a state of perpetual bivouac. I must conclude; for the mail drives off again in a few hours, and I want rest. More to-morrow.

Killarney, Sept. 24th.

In the course of to-day I saw twelve rainbows, a bad omen for the steadiness of the weather; but I receive it as a good one for me. It promises me a many-coloured journey. The company had dropped off, one by one, like ripe fruit, and I found myself alone with an Irish gentleman, a manafacturer from the north, when I entered the pretty cheerful town of Killarney, where the incessant resort of English tourists has almost introduced into the inns English elegance and English prices. We immediately inquired for boats, and for the best way of seeing the lake, but were told that it was imposible to go on in such a storm: no boat could ‘live on the lake,’ as the fisherman expressed it. An English dandy, who had joined us during breakfast, ridiculed these assurances; and as I, you know, am also rather incredulous about impossibilities, we outvoted the manufacturer, who showed very little ardour for the undertaking, and embarked, ‘malgrÉ vent et marÉe,’ near Ross Castle, an old ruin not far from Killarney.

We had a capital boat, an old characteristic-looking grey-headed steersman, and four sturdy rowers. The heaven was as if torn open; in some places blue, in others various shades of gray; but for the most part raven-black. Clouds of all forms rolled in wild disorder, now and then tinged by a rainbow, or lighted by a pale sunbeam. The high mountains scarcely appeared through their gloomy veil, and on the lake all was like night. The Black waves heaved in busy and ceaseless tumult; here and there one bore a crest of snow-white foam. As the motion was nearly as great as at sea, I was slightly sea-sick. The manufacturer was pale from fear; the young Englishman, proud of his amphibious nature, laughed at us both. Meanwhile the storm piped so loud that we could hardly hear each other speak; and when I asked the old steersman where we should land first, he said, “At the Abbey, if we can land anywhere.” This did not sound encouraging. Our boat, which was the only one on the lake, for even the fishermen would not venture out, danced so fearfully up and down without making the smallest way, in spite of all the efforts of the rowers, that the manufacturer began to think of wife, children and manufactory, and peremptorily insisted on returning, as he had no intention of sacrificing his life to a party of pleasure. The dandy on the other hand was ready to burst with laughter: he protested that he was a member of the Yacht Club, and had seen very different sort of danger from this; and promised the rowers, who would rather have been at home, money without end if they would but hold out. For my own part, I followed General Yermoloff’s maxim, “neither too rash nor too timid,” took no part in the contest, wrapped myself in my cloak, and awaited the issue in peace. It seems I had all the beauty of the scene to myself; one of my companions being prevented from seeing it by fear, the other by self-complacency. For some time we struggled with the waves, on which we floated like sea-birds in storm and darkness; till at last such a violent wind came upon us from a gorge in the mountains opposite to which we lay, that it grew rather too serious even for the ‘member of the Yacht Club,’ and he acceded to the request of the steersman, to row back with the wind, and land on an island till the storm abated a little, which was generally the case about noon.

This happened as he predicted: and after encamping for some hours in Innisfallen, a lovely little islet with beautiful groups of trees and ruins, we were able to continue our voyage. All the islands of this little lake, even to the smallest, called the Mouse, which is only a few yards long, are thickly clothed with arbutus, and other evergreens. They grow wild; and both in summer and in winter enliven the scene with the bright colours of their flowers and fruit. The forms of many of these islets are as curious as their names. They are generally called after O’Donaghue. Here is O’Donaghue’s ‘White Horse,’ on whose rocky hoofs the surf breaks; there, his ‘Library;’ further on, his ‘Pigeon-house,’ or his ‘Flower-garden;’ and so on. But you do not know how the lake of Killarney arose. Listen then.

O’Donaghue was the powerful chieftain of a clan inhabiting a great and opulent city, which stood where the lake now rolls its waters. It had everything in abundance except water; and the legend says, that the only little spring which it possessed was the gift of a mighty sorcerer, who called it up at the prayer of a beautiful virgin; adding a solemn warning, that they should never forget to close it every evening with a large silver cover which he left for that purpose. The strange forms and ornaments seemed to confirm this wonderful command; and never was the old custom neglected.

But O’Donaghue, a mighty and dauntless warrior (perhaps too, like Talbot, an incredulous one,) only made merry at this story, as he called it; and one day, being heated with more wine than usual, he commanded, to the terror of all present, the silver cover to be carried into his house, where, as he jestingly said, it would make him an excellent bath. All remonstrances were vain: O’Donaghue was accustomed to make himself obeyed: and as his terrified vassals at length dragged in their ponderous burthen, amid groans and lamentations, he exclaimed laughing “Never fear, the cool night air will do the water good, and in the morning you will all find it fresher than ever.” But those who stood nearest to the silver cover turned away shuddering, for it seemed to them as if the strange intricate characters upon it moved, and wreathed like a knot of twisted snakes, and an awful sound appeared to come forth mournfully from it. Fearful and anxious, they retired to rest: one alone fled to the adjoining mountains. And now when morning broke, and this man looked down into the valley, he thought he was in a dream;—city and land had disappeared; the rich meadows were no more to be seen, and the little spring bursting forth from the clefts of the earth has swelled into a measureless lake. What O’Donaghue prophesied was true; the water had become cooler for them all, and the new vessel had prepared for him his last bath.

In very clear bright weather, as the fishermen assured us, some have seen at the lowest bottom of the lake, palaces and towers glimmering as through glass: but many have beheld, at the approach of a storm, O’Donaghue’s giant figure riding over the waves on a snorting white horse, or gliding along the waters with the quickness of lightning in his unearthly bark.

One of our boat’s crew,—a man of about fifty, with long black hair, which the wind blew wildly about his temples, of an earnest and quiet but imaginative look,—was stealthily pointed out to me by one of his companions, while they whispered in my ear that “he had met him.”

You will believe that I quickly entered into conversation with this boatman, and sought to gain his confidence, knowing that these people, whenever they anticipate unbelief and jesting, observe an obstinate silence. At first he was reserved; but at length he became warmed, and swore by St. Patrick and the Virgin that what he was going to tell me was the naked truth. He said he had met O’Donaghue at twilight, just before the raging of one of the most terrific storms he had ever witnessed. He had staid out late fishing; it had rained torrents the whole day; it was piercingly cold, and without his whiskey-bottle he could not have held out any longer. Not a living soul had been visible on the lake for a long time,—when all at once a boat, as if fallen from the clouds, sailed towards him; the oars plied like lightning, and yet no rowers were visible: but at the stern sat a man of gigantic stature: his dress was scarlet and gold, and on his head he wore a three-cocked hat with broad gold lace. The spirit-boat passed him: Paddy fixed his eyes intently upon it: but when the tall figure was over against him, and two large black eyes glared forth out of the mantle, and scorched him like living coals, the whiskey fell out of his hand, and he did not come to himself till the rough caresses of his other half waked him. She was in a great rage, and called him a drunken fellow:—She might think the whiskey had brought him to that, but he knew better.

Is it not curious that the costume here described exactly corresponds with that of our German Devil of the last century, who is now come into such great favour again? And yet Paddy had most certainly never heard of the FreischÜtz. It seems almost as if Hell had its ‘Journal des Modes.’ I was extremely amused at the old man’s penitence and distress after he had finished his story. He loudly reproached himself for it, crossed himself, and incessantly repeated, “O’Donaghue, though terrible, looked like a ‘real gentleman; ‘for,” said he, looking round fearfully, “‘a perfect gentleman’ he was, is now, and always will remain.” The younger boatmen were not such firm believers, and seemed to have a good mind to joke the ghost-seer a little, but his seriousness and indignation soon overawed them all. One of these young men was a perfect model of a youthful Hercules. With all the overflowing spirits of a body sound to the core, he played incessant tricks, and did the work of three at the same time.

We landed at Mucruss Abbey, which stands in Mr. Herbert’s park, notwithstanding which it is plentifully furnished with skulls and bones. The ruins are of considerable extent, and full of interesting peculiarities. In the court yard is a yew-tree, perhaps the largest in the world; it not only overtops all the building, but its branches darken the whole court, like a tent. In the first story I observed a fire-place, on which two ivy branches, one on each side, formed a most beautiful and regular decoration, while their leaves covered the mantel-piece with a mass of foliage.

Our guide here gave us a curious example of the unbounded power of the Catholic priests over the common people. Two clans, the Moynihans and the O’Donaghues had been in a state of perpetual feud for half a century. Wherever they met in any considerable numbers, a shillelah battle was sure to take place, and many lives were usually lost. Since the formation of the Catholic Association, it has become the interest of the priests to establish peace and concord in their flocks. Accordingly, after the fight which took place last year, they enjoined as penance that the Moynihans should march twelve miles to the north, and the O’Donaghues an equal distance to the south, and both pronounce certain prayers at their journey’s end; that all the lookers on should make a pilgrimage of six miles in some other direction; and in case of a repetition of the offence, the penance to be doubled. All this was executed with religious exactness; and ever since the war is at an end.

Continuing our progress for about three miles on this side the lake, we landed on a thickly wooded shore, and visited O’Sullivan’s waterfall, which, swollen by the rain, was doubly magnificent. The luxuriance of the trees and trailing of the plants which overhang it, and the cave opposite, in which you stand protected from the wet to view this foaming cataract, increase the picturesque and wild beauty of the scene. Here are sweet lonely walks, which lead over the mountains to a village imbedded in a wood, and cut off from all the world.

But as the sun was struggling with the clouds, and we were soaked through and through (by the heavens and the lake whose waters had more than once washed over us,) and very weary, we resolved to close our labours for to-day, and to return by Lady Kenmare’s pretty villa.

As we had still about four miles to go by water, the handsome young fellow, who by-the-bye, in spite of his athletic frame, had a most remarkable resemblance to Mademoiselle Sontag, offered to bet three shillings that he would row us home in half an hour. The old ghost-seer would not undertake such an exertion, but young Sontag declared he would row for him. We accepted the wager, and now flew like an arrow across the lake. Never did I see a finer exhibition of power and persistency, amid constant singing, jokes, and sportive tricks. The rowers won their wager only by half a minute, but received from us more than double their bet, which all promised with great glee to drink in the course of the night. To conclude the whole, they held a conversation, already got up for the purpose, with the echo of the walls of Ross Castle. The answers had always some double meaning; for instance, ‘Shall we have a good bed?’—answer, ‘Bad,’ and so on.

Sept. 25th.

Unfortunately two Englishmen of my acquaintance arrived to-day, and joined us, which destroyed my beloved incognito; for though I am no ‘exalted personage,’ I find as much pleasure in it as if I were. When one is unknown, one always escapes some gene, and gains some freedom the more, however inconsiderable one may be. As I could not help myself in this case, I contrived at least to perform half this day’s tour by land with my worthy friend the manufacturer, and let the three Englishmen go together by boat. It was the same which we had yesterday, and had then engaged for to-day. My poney had the high sounding name of ‘the Knight of the Gap.’ He was but a recreant knight, however, and would not move without whip and spur. Before we came to the great ravine or gap, from which he takes his name, we had a very beautiful view of the mountains from a hill which rises in the midst of the plain. Mountain, water, and trees, were so happily distributed as to produce the more refreshing harmony:—the long ravine appears all the wilder and more, monotonous; in the style of Wales, but not so vast. In one part of it a large mass of rock loosened itself some years ago, and lies, split in two, across the road. A man had the project of excavating these pieces of rock as a hermitage, but remained faithful to his strange dwelling only three months. The people, with their usual energy of expression, call it “the madman’s rock.” Some way further on we saw an old woman cowering on the road, whose appearance exceeded all that has ever been invented in fairy tales. Never did I see anything more frightful and disgusting: I was told that she was a hundred-and-ten years old; and had survived all her children and grandchildren. Although in an intellectual point of view reduced to a mere animal, all her senses were in tolerable preservation. Her form was neither human nor even animal, but resembled rather an exhumed corpse reanimated. As we rode by, she uttered a piteous whine, and seemed satisfied when we threw her money. She did not reach however to pick it up, but sank back into her former torpor and apathy. All the furrows of her livid face were filled with black dirt, her eyes looked diseased, her lips were of a leaden blue; in short, imagination could conceive nothing so shocking.

We met our boat at Brandon Castle, a ruin rendered habitable, with a high tower and neglected pleasure-grounds. There are some pieces of water through which our guides carried us on their backs. The boat appeared ‘À point nommÉ;’ it sailed round a projecting point just as we reached the shore, and had on board the best bugleman in Killarney. He blew a sort of Alpine horn with great skill, and called forth many a delightful echo. We passed the arch of a bridge, on which, when the waters are swollen, boats are often wrecked. Our bugleman told us that he had been twice upset here, and the last time nearly drowned. He wished, therefore, to be put on shore, and climb along the rocks past this formidable place; but the old steersman would not consent, declaring that if the strange gentlemen remained in the boat it became him to stay, and be drowned with them. We all passed quite safely however.

The rock called “The Eagle’s Nest,” which is the almost constant abode of those kingly birds, is of a fine and imposing form. Not far from it is Coleman’s Leap,—two rocks standing upright in the water at some distance; on which are the marks of feet, three or four feet deep in the rock. Such leaps and footmarks are to be found in almost all mountains.

Our boat was fully victualled for a brilliant dinner (a thing which Englishmen seldom forget,) and as we espied a most romantic cottage under high chesnut trees, we determined to land here, and eat our repast. It would have been extremely agreeable, had not the dandy spoiled it by his affectation, his want of all feeling for the beautiful, and his ill-natured ‘persiflage’ of the less polished but far more estimable Irishman. He gave him the nickname of Liston (a celebrated actor, who is particularly distinguished in silly absurd characters,) and made the poor devil unconsciously act so burlesque a part, that I was reluctantly constrained to laugh, though the whole thing was quite ‘hors de saison,’ and in the most execrable taste. It is possible, too, that the Irishman only affected stupidity, and was, in fact, the most cunning of the two,—at least he addressed himself to eating and drinking with such unwearied perseverance while the others were occupied with laughing, that very little remained for them. I cannot deny that he received powerful support in this department from me.—A fresh-caught salmon broiled on arbutus-sticks over the fire was an admirable specimen of Irish fare.

We rowed slowly back by moonlight, while the bugleman’s horn started echo after echo from her repose. It was an enchanting night; and wandering from thought to thought, I reached a state of mind in which I too could have seen ghosts. The men near me seemed to me only like puppets; Nature alone, and the sweetness and the majesty that surrounded me, seemed real.

Whence comes it, thought I, that a heart so loving is not social? that men are generally of so little worth to you?—Is your soul too small for intercourse with the intellectual world, too nearly allied to plants and animals?—or have you outgrown the forms of this state of existence in some prior one, and feel pent up in your too narrow garments? And when the melancholy tones of the bugle-horn again trembled in soft notes across the waves, and gave to my fancies the sounds of a strange language, like the voice of invisible spirits, I felt like GÖthe’s fisherman,—as if some irresistible force dragged me softly down into the calm element, to seek O’Donaghue in his coral rocks.

Before we landed, a curious ceremony took place. The boat’s crew, with young Sontag at their head,—who always called me ‘his gentleman,’ in virtue of a somewhat larger fee he had received from me,—asked permission to lie-to at a little island, and to christen this after me, which could only be done by moonlight. I was therefore told to stand on a projecting rock: the six boatmen leaning on their oars formed a circle around me, while the old man solemnly pronounced a sort of incantation in a wild measure, which sounded awfully in this romantic scenery and the night. Young Sontag then broke off a large arbutus branch, and giving a twig of it first to me, and then to the gentlemen in the boat, we fixed them in our hats; the rest he divided among his comrades, and then asked me—with respectful earnestness what name the island—with O’Donaghue’s permission—was in future to bear? “Julia!” said I with a loud voice:—on which this name was repeated, not very accurately, three times with thundering hurrahs. A third man now took a bottle filled with water, delivered a long address in verse to O’Donaghue, and threw the bottle with all his might against a piece of rock, so that it broke into a thousand pieces. A second bottle filled with whiskey was then drunk to my health, and a threefold cheer again given to Julia Island. The boatmen, to whom the name was strange, took it for mine, and henceforth called me nothing but Mr. Julia, which I heard with a melancholy satisfaction.

Your domains are thus increased by an island on the romantic lake of Killarney: it is only a pity that the next company that lands on the same spot will probably rob you of it; for doubtless such christenings take place as often as godfathers are to be found. The real child, the whiskey-bottle, is always at hand. Nevertheless, I enclose an arbutus leaf from the identical sprig which flourished on my hat, that you may at least retain undisputed possession of something from your island.

Glengariff, Sept. 26th.

To write to you to-day is really an effort which deserves reward; for I am excessively tired, and have, like my father Napoleon, been obliged to drink coffee incessantly to keep me awake.[132]

I left Killarney at nine o’clock in the morning in a car of the most wretched construction, and followed the new road which leads along the upper and lower lake to the Bay of Kenmare. This road discloses more beauties than are seen from the lakes themselves, which have the great disadvantage of affording a picturesque view on one side only,—the other shore is quite flat. On the road which lies along the side of the mountain and through a wood, every turn presents you with pictures, which are the more beautiful from being framed. I remark, generally, that views seen from the water lose: they want the principal thing—the foreground.

Near a beautiful cascade, and in the most charming wilderness, though not far from the road, a merchant has built himself a villa, and surrounded it with a garden and park. He must have expended at least five or six thousand pounds,—perhaps much more,—and yet the land is the property of his family only for ninety-nine years; at the expiration of that time it falls, together with all that is upon it, to the lord of the soil, Lord Kenmare, and must be delivered up to him in perfect repair. No German would feel disposed to spend his money in decorative improvements on such terms: but in England,—where almost the whole soil belongs either to the government, the church, or the powerful aristocracy, and therefore can seldom be purchased in fee; where, on the other hand, industry, fostered by a wise government, in alliance with agriculture, has enriched the middling and trading classes,—such contracts are extremely common, and obviate many of the inconveniences of the distribution of landed property, without diminishing its great utility to the state.

The ascent now became steeper and steeper, and we soon found ourselves in the midst of bare heights; for vegetation here seldom extends above midway up the mountains. It is not as in Switzerland, where luxuriant verdure reaches almost to the snowy region. To take Switzerland as a standard by which to try Ireland, would however be absurd. Both countries afford romantic beauties of a totally different character; both excite admiration and astonishment at the sublime works of Nature, though in Switzerland they are on a more colossal scale. The road was so winding, that after half an hour’s climbing we found ourselves precisely over the cottage I mentioned, which with its shining gray thatch looked, at that depth, like a little mouse sunning itself in the green grass;—for the sun, after a long struggle, had at length become undisputed lord of the heavens.

Eight miles from Killarney we reached the highest point of the road, where stands a solitary inn. You look down upon the broad valley, in whose lap lies the greater part of the three lakes, so that you behold them all with one glance.

From this point the road descends, leading between naked mountains of bold forms to the sea. It was fair-time when I arrived in Kenmare, and I could hardly penetrate through the bustling crowd with my one-horse vehicle, especially from the number of drunken men who would not—perhaps could not—get out of the way. One of them fell in consequence of an attempt to do so, and knocked his head so violently on the pavement that he was carried away senseless,—a thing of such common occurrence that it attracted no attention. The skulls of Irishmen appear to be universally of a more firm and massive construction than those of other people, probably because they are trained to receive shillelah blows. While I dined, I had another opportunity of observing several affrays. First a knot of people collect, shouting and screaming; this rapidly thickens; and all at once, in the twinkling of an eye, a hundred shillelahs whirl in the air, and the thumps,—which are generally applied to the head,—bang and snap like the distant report of fire-arms, till one party has gained the victory. As I was now at the fountain-head, through the mediation of mine host I bought one of the finest specimens of this weapon, yet warm from the fight. It is as hard as iron, and that it may be sure to do execution, it is also weighted at the end with lead.

The celebrated O’Connell is now residing at about thirty miles from hence, in his solitary fortress in the most desert region of Ireland. As I have long wished to know him, I sent a messenger from this place, and determined, while waiting for his answer, to make an excursion to Glengariff Bay, whither I accordingly set out as soon as I had dined.

Driving is now completely at an end: I can proceed only on a poney or on foot. I set out, a poney carrying my baggage, and I and my guide walking by his side. If either of us were tired, the good little horse was to carry us too. The sun soon set, but the moon shone bright. The road was not uninteresting, though horribly bad, often leading through bog and brook without bridge or stepping-stone. It became indescribably difficult after six or eight miles, where we had to climb a high and nearly perpendicular hill, treading only on loose and pointed stones, from which we slipped back at every step nearly as far as we went forward. The descent on the other side was still worse, especially when a mountain intercepted the moon’s light. I was so weary that I could walk no further, and seated myself on the poney. This little creature showed almost human intelligence. Going up-hill he helped himself with his nose, and I think even with his teeth, as a fifth leg; and down-hill, he wriggled with incessant twisting of his body like a spider. When he came to a boggy place, in which there was only here and there a stone, thrown by way of step, he crept as slowly as a sloth, always trying first with his foot whether the stone would bear him and his burthen. The whole scene was most singular. The night was so clear, that I could see around me to a great distance; but nothing met my eye save rocks ranged above rocks, of every shape and kind, standing out gigantic, wild and sharp, against the sky. No living creature, not a tree or bush, was to be seen, only our own shadows trailed after us; not a sound was heard but our own voices, and sometimes the distant rush of a mountain-stream, or more rarely the melancholy horn of a herdsman collecting his cattle wandering amid these pathless wilds. Once only we saw one of these cows, which, like the mountain-sheep of Wales, have caught the shyness of wild animals. She was lying in the road, but on our approach sprang bellowing over the rocks, and vanished in the darkness like a black spirit.

About an hour before you reach Glengariff Bay the landscape becomes as luxuriant and park-like as it has heretofore been dreary and barren. Here the rocks arise in the strangest forms, out of Hesperian thickets of arbutus, Portugal laurel, and other lovely and fragrant shrubs. Many of these rocks stand like palaces, smooth as marble, without excrescence or inequality; others form pointed pyramids, or long continuous walls. In the valley sparkled solitary lights, and a gentle breeze waved the tops of the high oaks, ashes, and birches, intermingled with beautiful holly, whose scarlet berries were visible even by moonlight. The magnificent bay now glittered under the web of moonbeams which lay upon it; and I really thought myself in Paradise when I reached its shore, and alighted at the door of a pretty cheerful inn. Cheerful as was its exterior, mourning was within its gates. The host and hostess, very respectable people, came out to receive me, dressed in deep mourning. On my inquiring the cause, they told me that her sister, the most beautiful girl in Kerry, eighteen years of age and the picture of health, died the day before of a brain-fever, or rather, of the ignorance of the village doctor:—the poor woman added, weeping, that a week’s illness had changed her to forty, so that nobody could recognize the corpse of the once blooming girl, or those sweet features which were so lately the pride of her parents and the admiration of all the young men in the neighbourhood.

She lies close by my bed-room, dear Julia! parted from me only by a few boards.—Four feet from her stands the table at which I am writing to you. Such is the world;—life and death, joy and grief, are never far apart.

Kenmare, Sept. 27th.

At six o’clock I was stirring, and at seven in the magnificent park of Colonel W——, brother of Lord B——, whose family possesses all the country around the bays of Bantry and Glengariff, perhaps the most beautiful part of Ireland. The extent of this estate is princely, although in a pecuniary point of view not so considerable, the greater part of the land, consisting of uncultivated rocks and mountains, which pay only the rent of romantic beauties and magnificent views. Mr. W—— ‘s park is certainly one of the most perfect creations of that kind, and owes its existence entirely to his perseverance and good taste. It is true, that he could nowhere have found a spot of earth more grateful for his labours; but it seldom happens that art and nature so cordially unite. It is enough to say that the former is perceptible only in the most perfect harmony; otherwise, it appears to vanish into pure nature:—not a tree or a bush seems planted by design. The vast resources of distant prospect are wisely husbanded; they come upon the eye by degrees, and as if unavoidably: every path is cut in a direction which seems the only one it could take without constraint and artifice: the most enchanting effects of woods and plantations are produced by skilful management, by contrast of masses, by felling some, thinning others, clearing off or keeping down branches; so that the eye is attracted now into the depths of the wood, now above, now below the boughs; and every possible variety within the region of the beautiful is produced. This beauty is never displayed naked, but always sufficiently veiled to leave the requisite play for the imagination: for a perfect park,—in other words, a tract of country idealized by art,—should be like a good book, which suggests at least as many new thoughts and feelings as it expresses.

The dwelling-house is not visible till you reach an opposite height; it then suddenly emerges from the mass of wood, its outline broken by scattered trees in groups, and its walls garlanded with ivy and roses and creeping plants. It was built after the plan of the possessor; in a style not so much Gothic as antiquely picturesque, such as a delicate feeling of the suitable and harmonious conceived to be in keeping with the surrounding scenery. The execution is excellent; for the imitation of the antique is quite deceptive. The ornaments are so sparingly and so suitably interspersed, the whole so well constructed for habitation and comfort, and the part which appears the oldest has such a neglected and uninhabited air, that the impression it made, on me at least, completely answered the intention of the architect; for I took it to be an old abbey, lately rendered habitable, and modernized just so far as our habits rendered necessary. At the back of the house are hot-houses and a walled garden in beautiful order, both connected with the sitting-rooms,—so that you live in the midst of flowers, tropical plants and fruits, without leaving the house. The climate is the most favourable possible for vegetation,—moist, and so warm that not only azaleas, rhododendrons, and all sorts of evergreens stand abroad through the winter, but even, in a favourable aspect, camellias. Dates, pomegranates, magnolias, lyriodendrons, &c. attain their fullest beauty; and the three last are not even covered. The situation affords extensive views, remarkable variety, and yet a complete whole, enclosed within high mountains. Bantry and Glengariff bays are seas in miniature, and supply to the eye the want of the ocean. On the land side the wavy lines of mountain seem nearly endless.

The lesser bay of Glengariff, which stretches in front of the house, is nine miles, the other fifty miles in circumference. Among the mountains immediately opposite to the park rises another sugar-loaf, and at its foot a narrow line of hills stretches into the midst of the bay, where its termination is picturesquely marked by a deserted fort. The park itself lies along one entire side of the bay, and at its lesser end borders on that of Bantry, where Lord B——’s house forms the principal object from this side. This whole beautiful domain was called out of nothing only forty years ago, and is yet only half finished. Such a work deserves a crown: and the excellent man who with slender means, but with singular talent and perseverance, has accomplished it, ought to be held up as a model to those Irish proprietors who spend their money abroad. I heard with real satisfaction, that on his and Lord B——’s estates party hate is unknown. Both are Protestants,—all their ‘tenants’ are Catholics; nevertheless they render an obedience as boundless as it is voluntary and cordial. Colonel W——, indeed, lives like a patriarch among them, as I learnt from the common people themselves, and settles all their differences, so that not a penny is spent in the wire-drawings of the law.

You may be sure that I was eager to make the acquaintance of so admirable a man: I esteemed myself, therefore, highly favoured by fortune in meeting him in the park inspecting the operations of his workmen. Our conversation took a very interesting and, to me, very instructive turn. I readily accepted his invitation to breakfast with him and his family; and found in his wife a lady with whom I had made a transient acquaintance in the whirl of London. She received so unexpected a guest most cordially, and introduced me to her two daughters of seventeen and eighteen. They are not yet out; for as I have told you, in England, where they bring out horses ‘sans comparaison’ too early, the poor girls are let to grow almost old before their leading-strings are taken off and they are launched into the wicked world.

The family show me all possible civility and kindness; and as the ladies saw me so passionate a lover of nature, they urged me to stay some days, that I might visit the various wonders of their neighbourhood, especially the celebrated waterfall, and view from Hungry Hill, in their company. It was impossible for me to stay, as I had already announced myself at O’Connell’s; but shall certainly avail myself of their invitation on my way to Cork, for such society is not of the kind that I shun.

I therefore contented myself for the present with taking a long walk with the whole family, first along the bay, to obtain a general view of the park and garden; then into a wood, in which Lord B—— has a ‘shooting lodge.’ This spot is as if invented for a romance. All that the most secluded solitude, the richest vegetation, the freshest and greenest meadows, surrounded by rocks and mountains; valleys on whose sides precipitous walls of rock, sometimes a thousand feet high, thickly-wooded glens, a rapid torrent dashing over masses of rock and over-arched by picturesque bridges of trunks and arms of trees; groves amid which the sunbeams play, and the cool waters refresh a thousand wild flowers; animals sporting about in joyous security, majestic eagles and gay-plumed singing birds, all rendered doubly dear to the poetic heart by the sweetest repose and retirement;—all that such elements can produce is here found combined in the richest profusion. With melancholy regret I quitted these enchanting fancies of our dear mother earth, and tore myself away, when we reached the rustic gate, at which my guide and poney were already waiting for me.

As I took leave of my new friends, and turned my back on the lovely valley, the heavens were overclouded anew, and on my entrance into the dreary rocky region which I described to you yesterday, assumed the hue most suited to my disposition and to the surrounding objects. Tired of my long ride of yesterday, I wished to walk; but on my inquiring for my over-shoes, which the wetness of the road rendered needful, I found that the guide had lost one of them; and as fine scenery is better enjoyed dry-footed, I sent him back, hoping to restore to my sorrowful galoche its faithful mate, at least for the morrow: for to-day I resolved to continue my way through thick and thin on foot.

A soft rain began to fall,—one mountain after another was veiled from sight; and I wandered on, to the region where only the vast bones of the earth are visible, casting back many a melancholy lingering thought to the lost paradise. Meanwhile the rain became more and more heavy, and sudden gusts of wind soon announced a serious storm. I had to climb the high mountain which lies in the middle of the first half of the way, and already I was met by torrents of water which gushed like little cascades through every cleft. As I am seldom in the way of enjoying such a bath in the open air, I waded with a great feeling of satisfaction and pleasure through the streams, throwing myself in some degree into the pleasurable state of mind of a duck. Nothing of that kind is, as you know, impossible to my mobile fancy. But as the weather became every minute more dark and stormy, my thoughts also became more gloomy, and indeed fell almost into the fashionable scornful satanic vein. The superstition of the mountains surrounded me; I could not withstand it, and RÜbezahl, the Bohemian Huntsman, elfs, fairies, and the Evil One himself, all passed before my mind; and I asked myself, “why should not the Devil appear to me, as well as to other respectable gentlemen?” At this instant I reached the highest point of the steep mountain.

The storm howled furiously, water fell in sheets from the heavens, and the deep basin below me appeared now and then for a minute from behind its black curtain, and then vanished again in the rolling mist and the gathering twilight.

A sudden gust of wind now completely inverted my umbrella, and nearly threw me down. I felt as if some giant fist had struck me. I turned and saw—nothing:—But how? does not something move there in the corner?—by heaven it does! My amazement was not slight when I now discerned, as clearly as darkness and rain would permit, a figure clad in black from head to foot, with a scarlet cap on its head advancing at a slow and limping pace towards me.

Now, dear Julia, ‘est-ce moi ou le diable qui Écrira le reste?’ or do you think I am inventing a fable to amuse you. ‘Point du tout’—Ditchung und Wahrheit[133] is my motto. At all events I must close my letter here: I venture to hope my next will be expected with some impatience. Wholly yours,

L——