"Could nobody be got?-Surely there were plenty of men in Kenmare who could drive a car?" I suppose there were some dozens at that moment standing about the streets, with not the slightest visible sign of any thing to do; but the good woman shook her head. "No; she was afraid not." She had two grown-up bare-legged daughters, and these she sent hither and thither, but they came back without success. "No; Murphy, nor Ryan, nor Coglan,-none of them would go." Surely," said I, " employment cannot be so very scarce in Ireland as it is said to be. Not a man in Kenmare that is desirous, or has time to earn half-a-crown, by driving a car for one stage!" “One would think not," said the woman. She paused to think.-" Biddy, your brother must go. | Run and fetch him." Away went the light-footed girl; and judge of my consternation, when I learned that this brother the eldest son of Mrs. Sullivan, a lad of seventeen- —was at plough some mile and half off! A good part of an hour was spent in waiting for this youth; but at length came his sister, hot with running, to say-" No; Egan would not leave the plough." The good woman was now in despair. "I never knew such a lad as that," said she. "But there is another car in the town. Run, Biddy! and show the jintleman." river, as it is called; that is, along a fine arm of the sea, running all the way from Derrynane, at its mouth hither, a distance of six-and-twenty miles. I do not know when I have enjoyed a drive more. To our left lay this fine sea-river, breezy and fresh, and beyond it rose wild moorland mountains, interspersed with patches of cultivation. The road, a new one, ran near the rocky shores of this ocean-stream, and the region into which we advanced became wilder and wilder. All round were nothing but naked and stony mountains, the highest ranges of which were the greenest. The lower regions were one chaos of bare stony ridges, and through these the road was cut. They were of a sort of clay-slate—the strata turned up, as it were, edgeways, and all worn and rounded by the action of the atmosphere, and of wintry tempests. Many of the rocky ranges resembled ships turned keel upwards; and between these were stuck, here and there, the huts of the peasantry. With the exception of the house and plantations of Mr. Dennis Mahoney, which lay down below us, between the road and the banks of the Kenmare river,-o -one old tower, peeping over the woods with good effect, we saw scarcely any other than the huts of the poor. At one place we crossed, by a bridge, the romantic stream of the Blackwater, a mountain river lying deep between its rocky banks, and its rapid waters, dashed from one stony ledge to another, sufficiently suggestive of its name from their dark hue. Here my driver, with a true feeling of the beautiful in nature, would not be satis Biddy led me a good way down to a shop; but the person in the shop-a woman again - said, "No; their horse was out." Adding, with a sig-fied without my getting down from the car to look nificant look, "The landlord at the inn is the man for a car; a very raisonable man; and has iligant cars." A light now broke upon me. The people were all afraid of this landlord; and returning to Mrs. Sullivan, I told her my opinion. "There your honour has just hit on it," said she; "and that's the raison none of the men dare go to drive; for he'll not give any of them a day's work, that go with any opposition car." I now began to fear that I must submit to the man's charges, and return to him; but Mrs. Sullivan began to show a proper zeal, and said she would have a man if it cost double what the landlord wanted. So out the daughter ran again. They showed vast interest in the affair; and, after flying hither and thither, came in triumph to say, that Dennis O'Shaughnessy would go, and the watchman was coming to harness the horse, and get him into the car. Presently the watchman, a tall, thin old fellow, appeared; and after trying first one bridle, and then another, and finding the traces wrong, and then that the doors of the shed where the car stood could not be got open, and the two girls going to push and shake at the doors on the other side of the street,-and half the street being up, and one of the girls having to get in at a back window to undo the door inside, at length out came the car, and out, through the house where I was sitting, came the great black horse to be put into it; and Dennis O'Shaughnessy appeared too, and away we went. Our road lay along the banks of the Kenmare over the bridge on each side. Far below lay the roaring stream; and the lofty banks, beautifully wooded, showed to peculiar effect in this naked and stony region. As we proceeded again, my driver lamented that the recent act of Parliament, regulating the salmon-fishing, had completely deprived the proprietors here of the fishery altogether. From some cause, which naturalists perhaps may be able to explain, the salmon ascends some rivers long after the usual time of its ascent of fresh streams. This was the case here; and the termination of the salmon-fishing, by the act, early in September, found the fish only beginning to ascend this and other rivers in Ireland; and thus terminated the fishing here at its very commencement. The same complaint I heard in other places in Ireland. A little beyond the Blackwater, a man suddenly slid down from a wagon-load of hay that met us. It was James Sullivan, who recognised his own car. Sending his wagon home by the man, he insisted on driving me himself; and a more hearty, communicative driver it was impossible to have. He went on telling me of all that concerned the whole country round; of Lord Lansdowne's estate, that country of moorland and mountain, stretching, I suppose, twenty miles along the other side of the Kenmare river; of the subterranean forests, of which great pine trees lay by the roadside; and a hundred other things. Anon he jumped off at a small public-house to give his horse some meal and water; and here I must go in and have a glass of whisky-toddy. A strange scene it was. Half-a-dozen ragged people, old and young, squatted on the dirty mud-floor, round a peat-fire on the hearth, over which boiled a large kettle of cabbage, the savoury fumes of which seemed to disturb the dreams of a family of young pigs, which lay under a wooden couch by the wall, and pillowed their heads on pieces of turf. The landlord, posted within his counter, which partitioned off the business part of the apartment, and formed, in Irish fashion, a sort of half-bar, half-shop, with candles and bread also to sell,set us out our glasses of toddy, and told me his adventures in London, where he had gone to seek employment as a baker, but could get none; Irish bakers and butchers, as he assured me, not being patronized in London, owing to their making" And he to be going to Darrynane, and all alone; bread, and dressing meat, in a totally different style from the English. so bad in his back that he could not go without his gig; and, indeed, why should he? And, therefore, he was extremely grieved; but he could not have the pleasure of obliging the gentleman. I had an inward fear of this. The state of things had appeared really too supernaturally good; but what was to be done? At this moment, a car, with only a single gentleman in it, drove by, and out darted the landlady, with a wild cry, and pursued it, shouting amain. The car stopped. There was a short parley. The good woman appeared all tongue and eloquence. The jolly, broad-backed gentleman gave a shake of the head, and drove on. "Oh! the mane man. Oh! the mane, unfeeling cratur !" came Mrs. M'Guin back, exclaiming ; Arrived at Sneam as night was setting in, what was my consternation to find that there was no such thing as a car kept in the place; and James Sullivan was obliged to go back! Here I was, at some dozen miles from Derrynane, in a miserable Irish village, with no apparent means of escaping the next day. The landlady said that nothing in the world was there on wheels, but the common cars of the peasantry, except the gig of the Catholic priest; but that Mr. Welch was so good a man, that "Sure if he knew where I was going, he would lend it me." The thing did not appear quite so probable to me. Why should the good priest lend his gig, the sole decent vehicle in the place, to any perfect stranger that came there? But necessity has no law; and so away I went, guided by two bare-legged damsels, across some dark fields, to make this unconscionable request of the worthy priest. Mr. Welch, a clever and gentlemanlylooking man, received me and my statement with the greatest possible courteousness, and said that he would lend me, with all the pleasure in the world, both gig and horse, if I could wait till twelve o'clock; but that, having to go out to do duty at early mass, he could not be back before. If I could wait! The question was, if I could, by any means whatever, get away. I accepted the benevolent priest's offer with all possible thanks; and, after a long conversation with himself, and two other gentlemen whom I found there, took my leave. My stout landlady, who kept every now and then giving the greatest sighs and groans, as if she was in some deep trouble, and yet, when I talked to her, laughed as heartily and merrily, declared that I should find "the most iligant entertainment in her house, to be had any where between there and Dublin ;" and though it did not quite come up to that amplitude of promise, it was far better than could have been expected, from the aspect of the wild country, the rueful village, and the inn itself, which, instead of a back-door, had a nice little pigstye, just where it should have been, opening into the house. But what a blow awaited me in the morning! The good woman informed me-how could it have been otherwise?-that the priest had been up betime, and had come there to say that he had got a call into the country, and had the rheumatism and to lave a poor, strange jintleman, that would ha' bin sich good company for him, when he's nobody but himself in the car? Och! it's quite unchristian althegither!" "How could you ask him such a thing?" said I. "How could I ask him! Why, wouldn't any body but a brute baste be glad to take a rale jintleman along wid him, that was left all shipwrecked, as one may say, and no manes of getting along; and he, the great fat cratur, wanting somebody all the time, if it were only to balance the car! Ah! he's a rale jintleman—a rale out and out jintleman,' says I to him, 'an' is going to the Liberator's. And what does he say but, Why don't you keep a car yourself, Mrs. M'Guin? This is my own private car, and I'll take nobody at all up on the road,' says he. Will the gates o' heaven take him in, I wonder, when he gets there?" concluded the indignant Mrs. M'Guin. I was no little amused at this singular appeal to a gentleman on the highway, but the difficulty remained; and Mrs. M'Guin said now there was nothing for it but to take a peasant's car, and do as well as we could. Soon, therefore, this vehicle appeared at the door, with a bony, black pony in it, and a boy of sixteen or so as driver. Let my countrymen, who have not seen what a peasant's car is, only imagine the vehicle on which I was about to take my journey to the great Liberator's! It was no other than a cart without any sides; simply a cart bottom with a pair of shafts. A little straw was spread on this bottom, and upon this was set my portmanteau ; and seating myself on this as on a throne, and my driver taking his place at one corner, partly on one shaft, and partly on the car, away we went! It was a fine Sunday morning, and the roads were black with people streaming along to chapel for six, and even eight and ten, miles round the country; the women all in their dark-blue cloaks. My driver had furnished himself with a bundle of willow switches, to beat on his horse; and of these he seemed to have great need. The horse appeared to have a particular aversion to motion; and before we had got half-way, the bundle of switches was used up, and the lad descended from the car, and propelled the animal by poking him in the sides with the sole remains of one of the sticks, now reduced to a mere peg. Tree there was none in the country; it was one wilderness of rocks and stony hills; but, by a piece of extraordinary good fortune, we observed a few more willows growing in a garden hedge; and the boy made for them, and began to supply himself anew. From a hill above, however, there came a loud and gruff cry of wrath. There sat aloft, over our heads, several great fellows, who were furious at this plunder of so much valuable timber; and the lad was glad to make his escape with a whole skin. Anon we overtook a poor woman, whose foot was bleeding from a cut with a sharp stone, and I invited her to mount the car; and so we went on for some five or six miles, to the chapel to which she was going. Here she descended, drew on her shoes and stockings on the bank, and then joined the singular and picturesque group of worshippers. These were assembled in crowds round the chapel, which stood on a little hill close to a small village. The dark dresses of the people gave strong effect to the scene, and to an English eye it was striking. Not only in the chapel yard were hundreds kneeling, but in the streets of the village itself, under the walls of the cottages, where they could not even get a peep at the chapel. This is a very common sight; more people, often, are kneeling during mass outside than inside of an Irish Catholic church, or chapel, as it is always there styled. If you ask them why they kneel where they can neither see nor hear the mass performed, nor even catch a glimpse of the chapel, they always reply, "Oh, it seems to do them good!" And truly, as is the case with all Catholic worshippers in every country, they have an air of singular devotion. Amongst the people stood a numerous group of young men, with their huge, bandy sticks, ready for a game of hurling, as they there call it, after mass was over. The way grew ever more and more wild. "Can Derrynane be in so wild a country as this?" asked I of the driver. "Ay, faith is it, and far wilder," said he. "The Counsellor's house is all amongst the wild mountains; but he has a meadow such as ye'll hardly see any where else." On turning the brow of a hill, there lay a descending country at the foot of the mountains, of some two miles in extent; there spread out the broad Atlantic to the left; and there, on its margin, amid its mass of embosoming wood, stood forth the gray pile of Derrynane. As I approached the house, rain came on, and the wild, misty clouds gave a still more impressive aspect to the scene, while the white spray of the ocean was seen flying high against the rocks, and the roar of the sea came full of majesty on the wind. I made my driver stop at a respectful distance from the house, though I believe, and as it may be imagined in such a country, it was not the first time that a stranger had arrived in such a vehicle; and advancing towards it, saw the stalwart form of the Liberator passing up the court before me. Turning round, he looked at me for a moment, and then exclaimed, "Ha! Mr. Howitt, do I see you in Ireland? I am very glad to see you." "It is long since we met," I observed. "Yes, but you have taken good care that we should hear of you from time to time, by your writings. What delightful books those are which Mrs. Howitt has given us from the Swedish and Danish!" "Why, do you really find time and inclination to read such books?" "To be sure. I have read every one of them, except the last, Only a Fiddler,' which we have not received yet from Dublin." While this was saying, we had advanced into the entrance-hall; my upper garment was removed, my portmanteau was already in charge of the staid old servant, so well known to visiters there, and we were ascending to the drawing-room, where I was introduced by Mr. O'Connell to those of his family then present, his amiable daughter, Mrs. French, Mr. and Mrs. Maurice O'Connell, and various guests. But before we make farther acquaintance with these, we must endeavour to receive a clear impression of the place itself, and its environments. I believe no good view has ever been taken of Derrynane. We have heard a deal of the princely style in which O'Connell lives there, and are therefore led to suppose that his ancestral abode is something quite magnificent. This is not the fact. The house at Derrynane is a good and capacious, rather than a grand house. On the contrary, taking into consideration the fame and standing of the great Irish Liberator, and the hospitality that both his position and his disposition dictate, it strikes one, on arriving at it, as a somewhat modest one. It is the fitting residence of a substantial country gentleman, and nothing more. It is of rather an irregular form, and has evidently been, from time to time, enlarged as became requisite, rather with regard to convenience than to one general design. Thus, you approach it by a sort of open court, formed by two projections from the main building. The one to your right consists of a part of the house, where, I suppose, the household affairs are transacted, as visiters seldom enter that portion; and of a small chapel which Mr. O'Connell has recently erected, and which is, indeed, not yet internally finished. The projection to your left, of two stories, contains, on the ground-floor, Mr. O'Connell's private study, and over it the library, with the windows overlooking the ocean. A small lobby in this projection first receives you; and advancing from it, you find yourself in a large one; in fact, in the very centre of the house, and where the grand staircase conducts you to the rooms above. Here you the drawing-room, a fine spacious apartment, running at right angles with the projection containing the study and library, and towards the sea; and the windows on all sides give you views over the ocean, and the rocky hills around, with the plantations close under the house, and the green expanse of meadow between the house and the sea. Beneath this room is the dining-room, of the same dimensions. On the other side of the main staircase, you see a long passage leading to a variety of rooms; but to these, except it be to his bedroom in that direction, the visiter seldom pene find sheltered hollow, the gardens. These are spacious, and very delightful. You cross an outer plot; pass under a sort of tunnel, or archway of some ten yards or so, and find yourself in a lovely flower-garden, with bee-hives standing here and there, and a beautiful spring of water, covered with a fanciful canopy of shell-work; and farther on you see still more tempting garden-walks, and masses of trees, half-concealing the rocks and hollows at the foot of the hills, which form the natural boundary to these pleasant gardens. As you advance, you come to a fine orchard, in the most central and sheltered part of this hollow; in one place you ascend a few steps, and find a little square platform on the boundary-wall, with seats round it, giving a splendid view of the mountains eastward; in another, you advance up a close woodland walk, and arrive at a summer-house, on a rocky knoll, giving one complete and airy view over both sea and land. Descending again by another path, you discover, at the foot of the rocks, a simple rural seat or bank, overhung by the trees, and with the flower-garden lying displayed at your feet. This seat used to be the favourite resort of the uncle of Mr. O'Connell, from whom he inherited Derrynane. This old gentleman, who seems to have been a man of both powerful physical frame, and lofty moral character, lived to within one year of a hundred. He was for some years blind before his decease, and delighted to sit here, where, beneath the fresh canopy of trees and rocks, he could hear the distant sound of the sea. That sound, so full of majesty, seemed not only to soothe him, but to bring, as it were, a visible perception of the scenes around, in which it made so grand a figure, and to call up the vivid acts and images of his trates. The library, the drawing and dining rooms, are the visiter's quarter, and a more airy and agreeable one he seldom will find. In themselves they are handsome, and handsomely furnished, with some family portraits, and other pictures; but with nothing that at all savours of a spirit of pomp or ostentation. They are handsome, home-like rooms, such as befit the abode of the country gentleman, or the reception of the prince, the noble, or the simple and unassuming man of taste. You feel that it is the house of one who has far higher claims to distinction than such as are derived from the mere splendour of abode. And what other house can show you such views from its windows? From the middle of a green wood you gaze down over a green meadow to the sea, which runs up into a sort of bay before the house, bounded by the high and stony ridge of Lamb Head, which shuts out the Kenmare river. Beyond the Kenmare estuary, you catch the view of the high and craggy point of that long promontory which separates Kenmare river from Bantry Bay. To the west, the eye follows the shores below the house, to where protrudes, far into the ocean, the green but wild foreland called the Abbey Island; because, in spring tides, it is sometimes separated from the mainland, but at other times can be reached across a narrow sandy neck on foot. In the corner, or inner sweep of the bay, formed by the running out of the Abbey Island from the mainland, you see the ruins of the old Abbey of Derrynane; whence the house of the Liberator is still often called Derrynane Abbey. Out at some distance in the ocean, in the same direction, you observe two lofty, insulated rocks, called Scariff and Dinish, of a bold and noble aspect, something like Ailsa Craig, off the coast of Scotland. Such is the view seaward from Derry-past life. "There was no fear of death in his strong nane; and when the ocean waves come swelling in with wind and tide, dashing their milky spray high over the black rocks which here and there stand aloft in the waters, and climbing, in snowy whiteness, the craggy shores in every direction, there is a wild grandeur about the scene which can rarely be surpassed. If we then walk out, and turn our gaze in an opposite direction, especially to the north and east, we find the place shut in by a sweep of noble mountains, reaching an elevation of two thousand five hundred feet. These form what is called in England a combe, or sheltered hollow, which is protected from all the severe winds, and builds a little secluded region of greenness and mildness; so mild, indeed, that the fuschia and the hydrangea are seen blowing there in great beauty in the open air. The house stands sufficiently elevated to command the fine sea view, and partly that of this green hollow, and its bold circle of craggy mountains. The house is partly battlemented, and the walls are all tiled from ground to roof with gray stone tiles; a defence against the action of the elements, no doubt found very necessary here, exposed as the house is to the winds and salt spray from the stormy Atlantic. On the north side of the house lie the court-yard, farm-buildings, and offices; and, separated from these by the highway, lie, in the bosom of the and prepared mind," said Mr. O'Connell, one day, "I thought so;' he said. 'I thought it was as large as that. The favour I would ask, Daniel, is, that that tree may now be felled.' 66 6 May be felled? What, the tree you have always seemed to take such pleasure in!' "Yes, I would have it cut down.' "Then certainly let it be cut down. There is no occasion to ask the permission of me.' "Yes, as this place will be yours, I would not do any thing without consulting you. I thank you for giving me leave to fell this tree, and now I will tell you for what purpose I would fell it. It is to make my coffin of its wood. I have for some time thought that it would be large enough, and I now find that it is. Send for the carpenter.' "The carpenter was sent for. Now, carpenter,' he said, addressing him, 'I want you to make my coffin. You must cut down that ash; saw it up into boards of an inch and quarter thick, and of twenty-two inches deep; the entire boards will be large enough both for that, and for the bottom and lid of a suitable proportion. As for the length, what do you think that should be?' "The carpenter, running his eye over the fine old man, and considering in himself for some time, replied: "I should say seven feet, your honour.' "Seven feet! Why, I never stood more than six feet three; age has something decreased my height, but death, I know, will stretch me out again to a certain degree; but, seven feet! why that is the proportion for a giant; let it be six feet five.' "With this the old gentleman dismissed the man and the subject. The tree was felled; the boards sawn and seasoned, and the coffin made according to his directions." This anecdote strongly reminded me, as it will others, of the singular scene in Miss Bremer's story of "The Neighbours," in which Ma chere Mere orders her coffin. The plantations which thus embosom these charming gardens, and the house also, are of considerable extent, and have pleasant drives through them in different directions. Taken in contrast with the bareness of the surrounding country, and the rugged character of the hills, they present a very attractive and refreshing mass of verdure to the eye. They are, however, but young, and have, I believe, been for the most part planted by the Liberator himself. The meadow lying between the plantations and the sea, presents, from the house, a most agreeable object; and offers one of the most charming places for walking, while the emerald billows are booming on the hard sands. Here, on Sunday afternoons, and on holidays, in the fashion of Catholic countries, the peasantry also assemble to a game of hurling, or a dance; and the Liberator and his family often go out, and walk amongst them, and give a livelier zest to their sport by the interest they take in it. The sea-sand, by that admirable provision of Providence, seen wherever a low shore is seen, has been thrown up into a bank, which the sea-grass has grown upon, and with its roots knit, as it were, into ocean-proof firmness; the sea thus creating its own barriers. The meadow actually lies below the water at high-tide; and, were the bank to give way, the whole meadow, and part of the plantations, would be overflowed. Of this there are some fears, from the looseness of the sand at a part called the Gap, or Dead Man's Gap, from funerals formerly having been carried along the shore to the abbey, and through this gap. To favour the accumulation of sand, thorns and stakes are driven down on the shore, which seem to answer the purpose; yet not so as entirely to allay all fears of the effects of some tremendous tempest from the west. Walking along this meadow on Sunday afternoon, with Mrs. French, and one or two other visiters, I observed a troop of people blackening all the road at some distance along the shore, and making towards the Abbey Island. Another moment, and the loud sounds of lamentation revealed what was the cause of this sombre conIt was a funeral. It was the first time I course. had seen an Irish funeral; and, especially in this striking scene, on the wild-looking Abbey Island, and amid the ruins of the abbey itself, the opportunity was not to be lost. Accompanied by part of the walkers, I hastened after the throng, and became a witness of this strange ceremony. As I drew nearer, the aspect of the place and people became more and more impressive. I was soon crossing the sandy hollow, over which the waves, dashing at high tides, resolve what is otherwise only a promontory, into the Abbey Island. Behind me rose the bold, rocky shores of the mainland, crags upon crags, and hills beyond hills, stretching away still higher and more wildly inland; while amongst them were perched the huts of the people, half peasantry, half fishers. To the right lay a small, well-sheltered harbour, with a hooker, or sort of yacht, belonging to Mr. Maurice O'Connell; to the left, the ocean; and before me, the high, craggy knolls of the island, and the naked ruins of the abbey church in the foreground, just at hand. The nets of the fishermen were spread to dry on the sandy swells about, while the fishermen themselves had joined the dark groups who were assembled around the abbey, where the mourners were now sending forth the loud chorus of their melancholy cries. A more striking scene could scarcely present itself. The ruins, merely those of the abbey church, a building of the plainest description, like most country churches in Ireland,-stood close on the rocky margin of the sea, above the broad beach which stretches below, but up which now the waves were rolling, foaming, and thundering in magnificent strength. Their voice of ancient sublimity mingled itself solemnly with the shriller cries of the people, whose fathers, from generation to generation, the hoary ocean had seen coming hither, with wail and gesture of grief, to deposit their dead. Within the ruins, all was one dark* mass of mourners; and around, on the turf, and amid the rocks projecting here and there from it, were scattered separate groups, who were down on their knees, flinging their arms about in a frantic fashion, and uttering thrilling cries of lament. The sombre throng was the greater, as it is a custom in the rural districts of Ireland, for all who meet a funeral to turn back and follow it, so that sometimes the procession is swelled immensely. One would have thought that this violence of grief, accompanied by so much action, must have quite worn them out, when one called to mind, that from the hour in which the deceased expired, the principal group had been engaged in "keening," or bewailing the dead, with lights burning before the coffin. Some of those with me, however, assured me that on these occasions they do not neglect to take sufficient refreshment; and that the scene, if observed by an English eye, would sometimes draw forth a smile in the presence of death. The mourners will howl, and lament, and get into a perfect frenzy of correspondent action; but on some one coming in, they will suddenly break off, bring out the whisky bottle, and |