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beneath the trees, with which shrubs are intermingled so that there is a verdure throughout the whole year; the arbutus, the mountain ash, the holly, laurel, silver ash, and mountain poplar. This demesne of Mucruss is jointly possessed by Lord Kenmare and Mr. Herbert. When the sun is setting on the lower lake, its isles, and mountains, this walk has an inexpressible beauty. The cicerone of the abbey is now a respectable man, who was formerly soldier, but the little old woman who used to show it to strangers was a more characteristic guide. As she stood on a grassy mound, with one hand extended, her snow-white kerchief pinned over her muslin cap, her short printed calico gown, black mittens, and neat shoes and stockings, forming a striking contrast with the general appearance of her countrywomen of the same rank in life. Her figure was, for her advanced age, surprisingly upright, and seemed to become straighter and taller as she descanted on the relics of time and mortality.“ All Killarney, since I was young, lie there," she said, pointing to the burial-ground. She was ninety-four years old. She was accustomed to pause beneath the famous yew-tree, from which, in spite of the veneration paid it, many bits have been picked off from time to time; for it is said that, while a bit of it is kept next the heart, there is no fear of sudden death. “No doubt,” said the old woman," it is a blessed tree, having been planted by holy men, but there was before my own eyes long ago, standing where you are now, a gentleman—a fine young man; he cut with his knife a bit of the bark, and laughed as he put it into his bosom, saying he could face death now; and, in a few minutes after, he went upon the lake. A fine calm day it was; there were many boats out to see the stag hunted; all was joy and gladness, but the poor mute animal for their diversion little joy was in its heart to be sure, for how could there? But, as I was saying, about the poor young gentleman ; just near the tunnel rock, whether the boatman had sipped too much of the whisky, or how it happened, no one knows, but the boat upset : all escaped but the gentleman. Some say that he was hit on the forehead by an oar which was put out to save him, but he was taken up cold and dead; and sure enough the slip of bark was found in his bosom, and the watch in his pocket, that never stopped going though he was gone for ever.” About half a century ago a kind of recluse or hermit came and dwelt here, of whose habits and mortifications stories are still told by a few, who never, however, saw him face to face. The aged guide loved to lead the way up some narrow stone stairs into what appeared to have been the monk's principal apartment, from its ample hearth and high stone chimneypiece, round which the ivy had now woven its own garniture. I stood,” she said, “ many a time with the hermit of Mucruss, of whom you may have heard speak. There was his bed-room," pointing to a recess in the wall; “ he made a kind of platform for his bed to rest on with old coffins, and the same served him for shelves to put his books upon. Some say he had committed a mortal crime in foreign parts, and came here to do penance : certain it is that he used to be seen upon the lake when even a sea-gull wouldn't venture out, and that in a bit of a boat made of the coffins. He was for ever questioning me about the abbey and its history, but I daren't hint a word as to himself, for he would be black and silent in a minute. People used to wonder at me for having the courage to go near him, but I couldn't keep away, doing this

Sept.-Voi.. Liv. No. ccxiii.

“ Here


little thing and that little thing, picking a brustna for fear he woul be starved with cold, and taking him up the potatoes, and the eggs, and the milk, which poor sinners used to bring to get his prayers.”

How wistfully does the stranger in Killarney look out for the first purple streaks of morn, for the bright sunrise that banishes all his nervous terrors of a wet and cloudy day, which is here a burden heavier than he can bear! Yet how often it comes! The weather was brilliant, with a gentle breeze, when we went on the lower lake. Ireland may be called the land of lakes, which are almost everywhere peopled with islands; even in the sheets of water, not a mile in length, or a quarter in breadth, are miniature isles, more or less wooded. In its many and lovely islands is the glory of the lower lake; even the Isolabella, with its palace and gardens, in the Lake Maggiore, is not a more enchanting spot than Inisfallen, and has not the same charm of simplicity and loneliness. It is mostly wooded and covered with a rich pasture. What a contrast is this ever-teeming verdure of brilliant green-on isle, valley, and even bog-to the dry and dusty surface of so many Italian scenes! The little cliffs of the isle are covered with the arbutus, the ash, alder, holly, and aged yew: in one part is a holly, the circumference of whose stem measures fourteen feet. There are many groups of fine old aks, and here and there little glades open to the sky, yet sheltered from the heat and blast by their screen of lofty shrubs. These beautiful glades, from which are glimpses of the mountains and forests, recall the description of the hermits, who, finding in the Thebais a little oasis, would never again quit it for the sterner world around. The monks of Inisfallen were ejected in the reign of Elizabeth from their loved seat: the ruins of their abbey are still visible. From the cloister walls an aged yew shoots up. The most interesting relic is an oratory on a projecting cliff-the door-case is a Saxon arch, enriched with chevron ornaments, one side of which is quite perfect and very beautiful. This ancient oratory has been fitted up by Lord Kenmare as a banqueting-room : on one side of it is a large bay-window, from which there is a fine view.

There is an almost endless variety in the islands of this lake, from the very large one of Ross, with its ancient castle, to the little shaded or desolate places that seem to float on the wave : its peculiar charm is the home-feeling that comes over the mind-there is something so companionable and attaching in its joyous isles, in their homes and restingplaces.

It is beautiful to row beneath the woods of Glena, where the arbutus is a forest-tree, and then to enter its bay, so perfect in its softness and majesty, and even its gloom, that it seems like a thing dreamed of—a luxurious creation of the brain. The cottage ornée of Lady Kenmare is just above the shore: in its suite of apartments there is an elegance and simplicity suited to the scene ; the windows look on the Glena precipices and their woods directly above-on the little bay and the waters beyond.

The world does not possess a more captivating retreat : so intense is its loveliness- --so happy its retirement—it is difficult to fancy oneself alone in it; the voices of other days seem to come back, and friends that are afar off to gather around us, for we feel sure that they, like ourselves, would have dearly loved a scene like this. In returning to Mucruss a long line of rocks is passed, their base hollowed into little caverns and grottoes: from their bare tops and sides, on which no soil is visible, springs a wanton foliage of shrubs and trees. The growth of these splendid shrubs, from the very rocks and stones, and desolate places of these lakes, is almost magical. The evening was without a breath of wind : in the sunset, from the shore of Mucruss, there was a glory not excelled in any eastern land: on the bare crests and forests of the Glena, the Tomies and the Turk, the golden light slept heavily; the Dingle mountains afar off, like vast beacon-fires, had a fiercer glare : slowly on each isle heaven painted for a while its dying hues, till the last crimson came, like life's last agony, again, again, as if never to depart.

It was dark when we reached a villa about a mile from the water, which, in the midst of its garden, on an eminence that overlooked the lakes, was a little literary refuge. To come from the silent places of Nature, from her superb wilderness, to listen to the words of a fair authoress, to her earnest pictures of " life's swift dream," and her aspirations after fame and immortality, was a sudden change. The fancy could not ask for a dearer home, on which to plume her wings for their loftiest and loveliest flights: yet the want of society, of its subtle and animating influence, was sensibly felt here. When the spell of our own thoughts is past, how welcome to turn to a kindred and favourite mind! to listen to the murmur of another fountain when our own is dry! The moon at last rose above Mangerton, and shone through the little librarywindow that looked forth on the garden, the lawn, and its fringe of wood. Why, when the scene and hour are so intense in beauty, does the memory love to fit to sad places, to the dreary shore or wilderness, full of some melancholy passage of past life? Is it that this wild contrast is ever dear to the fancy? After so much enjoyment during the day, images of desolation, sorrow, and dark excitement, now gathered like lost companions around.

The following evening was of a different character: in the long room of the cottage of Glena, kept for the use of strangers, about fifty were assembled, of various nations and ranks—the Swiss, the Greek, the Italian : beautiful women were among them, so were old and feeble men. The tour of the day was over; the spell of mountain, lake, and glen was hushed for a time: each face seemed to brighten as it looked on the faces of others, and the love of the picturesque yielded to the dearer love of the social. Never was a gayer company; both ladies and gentlemen were resolved to make others happy as well as themselves--and they did their best to accomplish so good a purpose. There was delightful music, which the echoes of Glena and the bay seemed to send sweetly back again: glees, madrigals, and French chansons were sung: a lady and her daughter sang admirably, as did a French marquis, who was so beside himself with the scenery that he could scarcely live off the lakes, and was out morning, noon, and night. Each party brought its own provisions; champagne and other good wines were not wanting; and the

went down, and twilight stole on, and the tourists could hardly prevail on themselves to separate.


“ Madamina, il catalogo è questo

Delle belle che amo il padron mio :
Osservate, legete, con Me."--IL DON GIOVANNI.

I sang,

For song, in youth, my pulse beat quick,

For song, in age, beats quicker; Applauding all, through thin and thick,

I shame Bray's veering Vicar.
On every voice, when most in

My glad attention lingers;
And Leporello's catalogue

Echoes my taste in singers.
At twenty-one, as mad as he,

Who rode on Rozinante,
Chain'd to the car of harmony

I bow'd to haughty Banti.
My senses all absorb d in sound,

“ Ah! mia cara,”
And raved ; till suddenly I found

My antidote in Mara. Mara I swore to woo for life;

But, when she sang in Polly,
Her English, as the Robber's Wife,

Relieved me of my folly.
By Mara's pipe no longer fired,

I lived uncharm’d by any;
Till, conquer'd by the ““ Soldier Tired,"

In Billington's Mandane.
Destined, ere long, again to veer,

As fickle as Giovanni;
Fate to enthral me made appear

Majestic Catalani.
Forth from my pocket, her half notes,

Extracted my half guineas,
Pour'd from the first of human throats,

Till—follow'd by Grassini's.
Grassini's mournful Proserpine

Was now my heart's new pattern.
Oh! how I wish'd my lot were thine,

Contr'alto, son of Saturn !
Light Bolla, with her laughing eye,

Then drove me nearly crazy ;
Till, soothed by the sobriety

Of quiet Camporese.
Ronzi, De Begni's better half,

Then ruled, till jocund Fodor
Came forward, with her easy laughi,

And put her out of odour.
Sontag ruled next, and ruled me long,

Fair fav’rite of Apollo;
Till Malibran, the Queen of Song,

Beat baffled Sontag hollow.

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my heart

Last in the scale, “ though last not least,"
To make

uneasy ;
Prime dainty in Euterpe's feast,

Comes all-accomplishid Grisi.
Her magic notes make sorrow flit,

And Care his wrinkles soften;
But, since the stalls have spoilt the pit,

I fail to hear them often.
The pit, of yore, the acts between,

A lounge, a quiet ramble,
Is now a bear garden- a scene

Of rude and noisy scramble.
Drawn thither from their sylvan haunt

By Orpheus—who can blame 'em ?
Tigers are charm'd-I only want

The new police to tame 'em !



• Par les ambles de mon mulet, respondit Rondibilis, je ne scay que je doibre respondre à ce problème."-RABELAIS.

" Le ridicule déshonore, plus que le déshonneur."- La RocuerOUCAULT.

ETIQUETTE is a gallicism which has yet scarcely obtained its letters of nationalization from the dictionary compilers, though thoroughly naturalized in all spoken discourse. In its etymology, however, it is closely connected with an ancient, respectable, and (to use a fashionable epithet) celebrated English vocable,—" ticket,”—a word not only universally received itself, but representing that which is the means of introducing others into almost every society constructed on an exclusive principle. The nature of this verbal alliance is well illustrated by the Shakspearian phrase “ We must speak by the card,” which indicates that what is now called the programme of a public ceremonial, was once denominated a card, or ticket. To speak or act by the card, then, was to be guided by the printed directions laid down by the master of the ceremonies, the lord marshal, or other competent authority, on any such particular occasion in that behalf provided and prepared. Etiquette, consequently, in its modern acceptation, refers to some line of conduct which has been ticketed with the approbation of the great leaders of society.

The learned in these matters will not fail to perceive that etiquette, thus employed, has nearly lost its literal signification, and is used very much in a figurative sense; ceremonial tickets of direction not having yet found their way into private society, except in the single instance of fancy and dress balls, in which the nature of the required habiliment is so set down and specified " in the card” of invitation. The reason for this difference is obvious : the despotism of exclusive society, albeit, absolute, irresponsible, and vested in certain individuals with an authority which none presume to resist, has yet no chartularies nor constitutions to produce. It is neither rank, nor wealth, nor political

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