SCENERY OF IRELAND.

I.

THE prominent association with the name of Ireland, to one who does not draw his ideas of the country from the English newspapers, is that of a prolific mother of orators, warriors, patriots, and poets. Out of sight of the froth that is thrown up from the angry cauldron of political strife, and out of hearing of the bitter contentions of party spirit, the inhabitant of another country looks upon the small space occupied by Ireland on the map of the world, with feelings of mingled wonder and admiration. The veil that obscures her past glory is withdrawn, the cloud that lowers over her social horizon melts away, and the distant observer opening the volume of her mournful history, counts the long roll of her illustrious names, and reads in those pages of shame and sorrow,-blotted by the best blood of her children,—the true character of an enthusiastic people. An undying love of liberty, and an untamed and restless genius, make them turbulent, excitable, and vindictive under real or imaginary wrongs; while the natural warmth and kindness of their disposition make us willing to forget the faults which under more favourable circumstances would never have had existence. In a work like this, however, of a pictorial character, and intended for circulation among all parties, the great question at issue in Ireland can only be thus far adverted to; and in recording my own observations while travelling in the country, I feel convinced that by avoiding the irritating topics of political and religious discussion, my readers will journey along with me more pleasantly through the wild and beautiful scenery of this Western Eden. Nor do I fear that we shall tire on the way for lack of objects worthy the attention of the antiquary and the poet, where every valley boasts the remains of some old abbey or monastery—the fastdecaying relics of the faded grandeur of the ancient Irish church; and where the romantic legends of an imaginative peasantry have peopled every hill-side with the fantastic and graceful creations of Fairy-land. Let me then, in the language of

VOL. I.

B

Ireland's favourite bard, invite those who love nature in her wild and simple attire, to follow me in my pilgrimage through those lovely scenes; for

"Never did Ariel's plume,

At golden sunset, hover
O'er such scenes of bloom
As I will waft them over."

After enjoying the chivalric festivities at Eglintoun Castle, I turned my face westward, and, following the example of St. Patrick, embarked on the 1st of September, at the narrowest point of the Channel, for Ireland. Port Patrick was named, they say, after the saint who introduced Christianity into the island, and banished every venomous creature from its soil. The miraculous ejectment of the ' varmin' was accomplished, according to the old song, in a manner no less singular than it was expeditious :

"Ten hundred thousand vipers blue,

He charmed with sweet discoorses,
And dined on them at Killaloe,

In soups and second coorses.

"The frogs went hop-the toads went flop,
Slap dash into the water,

And the snakes committed shooicide

To save themselves from slaughter."

Though I cannot coincide with the saint's taste in cookery, and would decidedly prefer an eel-pie at Battersea to his miraculous viper-broth at Killaloe, I confess that the absence of noxious reptiles is not one of the least blessings which this country possesses. Our passage was a very quick one, being little more than two hours from land to land, but in that short time I experienced all the horrors of seasickness; and it was with feelings of inexpressible delight that I found myself approaching the Irish shore, which I fancied spread forth her green arms to receive the stranger with the national " Cead mille failthe,”—a hundred thousand wel

comes.

We ran into the little harbour of Donaghadee, and was rather surprised to find it a very neat Scotch-looking town: the streets clean, the inn tidy, and not a beggar to welcome us to Ireland. The piers are of white granite, (the harbour was the design I believe of Sir John Rennie,) and with a couple of towers crowning an abrupt mound—the port has a picturesque and flourishing air. On the opposite side of the lough stands Carrickfergus, so celebrated in Irish history. Its castle is strongly situated on a rock, and commands the best harbour on the north-east coast of Ireland. It was built on the site of an ancient fort, by John de Courcey,