if allowed, will take advantage of it; tickled with a touch of the cane, they fall in two deep, but as closely as they place their riders in rather an awkward position, rubbing their legs together, and in this way sometimes dismounting the inexperienced one: their usual mode of proceeding, when left to their own election, being in a jog-trot, and in single file.
From Killarney to Fossa the scenery is subdued, but picturesque, with Kenmare demesne skirting the road on one side, and occasionally opening to a view of the Lower Lake; Aghadoe on the other, with green firleds and orchards gradually rising from the road-side, and a fir-grove at its summit, forming a dark outline to this pretty landscape. Another road called the New Line, branches off directly to the "Gap," from which can be seen McGillicuddy’s Rocks, ascending in wild irregular grandeur, ridge over ridge, and gradually hiding their summits in the grey clouds above. As we entered the "Gap," the golden beams of the sun, which, outside, added beauty and splendour to the surrounding scene, was shut out from our view, and the passage in front appeared like the entrance to some mighty cavern. The rugged mountains, rising in some places almost perpendicular to the road, the stupendous rocks above jutting out from their bases, seeming to threaten destruction to all below, and the mountain streams pouring over rock and crag, with ceaseless noise, added to the grandeur of the entire scene. This wonderful pass extends for miles, in soe places widening out and allowing the sun to shed his bright rays on the purple mountain sides, giving a cheering aspect at intervals to the awe-inspiring work of nature. About midway we got a shot fired off from a small canon, by a mountaineer who kept it on the roadside. At first, it sent a ringing noise through the valley, and then the echo sounded in different places in such quick succession that it resembled distant peals of thunder rolling from mountain to mountain. Farther on, our attention was attracted by a song, which seemed to come from the opposite mountain. It was "The Valley lay smiling before me," accompanied by a violin. We were surprised that no performer appeared in the place where the music seemed to come from, nor could we hear it anywhere else to make us suspect it was an echo. We listened with astonishment to the mysterious notes; but after advancing about fifty yards, to a turn in the road, the music was suddenly transferred, as if by magic, to a large rock overhanging the road near us, from which it now, like enchanted air, swelled forth in beautiful harmony. There stood the performer, singing away in his native pathetic style, and accompanying himself on his violin. This was certainly the strangest and most beautiful echo of all. At several paces in the roadside, we met with groups of pretty blue-eyed girls—true specimens of the mountain maiden—with rosy cheeks and fair hair, which fell in natural profusion on their shoulders. They carried goats milk, in large wooden jugs, which they offered for sale, and, when they satisfied their suspicions as to our appearance, soem small bottles were produced, which, they said, contained the real "mountain dew, that never saw the face of a gauger." Not far from this our ponies halted, I suppose from custom, opposite a neat white-washed cottage, with a square sign-board over the door, on which we read "Kate Kearney. Licensed to sell Whisky and Porter." Outside the door was a small table covered with a white cloth, and temptingly decorated with bottles and decanters. The far-famed Kate (or rather her daughter) stood at the door with a smiling countenance, and rather inviting appearance. her dress was a neat tammin gown of native manufacture, and a cotton shawl thrown over her shoulders, a snow-white cap forming her head-dress; which gave her the appearance of a tidy Irish peasant housewife. Groups of stragglers were about the house, smoking their short black pipes, and jesting in their own witty style, each waiting to be hired, as bugler of guide. Inside the door, on a three-legged stool,sat an old piper, playing on his bag-pipes, tempting the youngsters who sat around him to a jig. At our request, they got themselves in motion, and danced the "Irish Washerwoman" in fine style, tipping the floor with heel and toe like so many drumsticks, gracefully changing places, and keeping perfect time with the music. After being helped by Kate to some goat’s milk and whisky, which was a great boon to us after our long ride, we again mounted ou ponies, well-pleased, and rode off over the rugged road which led to the end of the "Gap." At its termination a wide valley opened to our view, clothed in heather of a rich purple colour, interspersed wit swords of new-mown hay; the beautiful perfumes of both were scattered about by the breeze, and wafted along the road, which takes a sweep of about two miles along the valley, and terminates at the entrance to Lord Brandon’s grounds.
(To be continued.)
In the rose-scented breeze, at the setting of sun,
In some valley’s green bosom, where silver streams run,
Anacreaon, when merry with wine, loved to praise
The juice of the grape in harmonious lays.
When Chian and Samian sparkled and gleamed
In goblets of gold, the poet ne’er dreamed
That in ages to come man could make merry
On drink made from beets, jowsely called sherry.
From the world of spirits, if hither he flew
In guest of some nectar or pure "mountain dew,"
Should he taste what’s imbibed by the staff of her "Goose,"
He’d speed back again with all haste to the deuce!
