A TOUR AROUND THE WORLD. CHAPTER I. QUEENSTOWN: CORK: BLARNEY CASTLE: BANTRY: GLENGARIFF: LAKES OF KILLARNEY: GAP OF DUN- FAST: It AFTER a ten days' voyage by steamer across the Atlantic from New York, we reached the Emerald Isle, landing at Queenstown, a city situated at the southern extremity of Ireland, in Cork Harbor, and admirably defended by two strong forts. contains about 10,000 inhabitants, and has few attractions for tourists; but is a favorite resort for invalids on account of its mild climate. Here the Rev. Charles Wolfe, who wrote the famous poem, "The Burial of Sir John Moore," died of consumption in 1823. After passing our baggage through the Custom House, an hour's time was quite sufficient to note the few points of interest the place presented, and taking rail for Cork, we skirted the beautiful river Lee for twelve miles, passing several ancient castles and lovely modern country-seats. At Cork we took carriage, and drove for six miles along the banks of the Lee to Blarney Castle, over a road considered the most charming in Ireland, passing the Castle of Carrigrohane and the Bridge of Inniscarra built by Cromwell in the 16th century. Blarney Castle was the stronghold, and long the residence of the royal race of McCarthy, by whom it was built in the 15th century; all that now remains of it is a donjon tower, 125 feet in height, with walls 14 feet in thickness, which rendered it impregnable before the introduction of gunpowder. The chief attraction of this castle is the famous Blarney-stone, which is supposed to endow whoever kisses it with that gift of persuasive eloquence so characteristic of the Irish nature. This stone, which bears the inscription, "Cormach McCarthy, 1446," is placed near the top of the tower, and is both difficult and dangerous of access; but a substitute is shown the less venturesome below, which is said to possess the same virtue as the original. On the river side is shown the place where the defenders of the castle poured down hot lead upon Cromwell's attacking forces, and beneath are the donjon cells, three by five feet in dimension, and ventilated only by an inch. hole. An underground passage, also hewn from the solid rock, connects the castle with a cave some three hundred yards beyond, while the grounds surrounding the castle are noticeable both for their beauty and their historic interest. Returning to Cork by a different road, one has a lovely bird's-eye view of that city, picturesquely situated on the Lee. It was here that William Penn became a convert to Quakerism, and near by the place where Sir Walter Raleigh lived, planted the potato, and scented the air of Hibernia with the fragrant weed of our own Virginia. Leaving Cork by rail for Bantry-distance 70 miles we passed through primitive Ireland, seeing much ignorance and squalor, barefooted, ragged mendicants preferring their claims upon our time and charity at every turn, and miserable huts with straw chimneys and dirt floors—man and beast sharing alike such poor comfort as might be found within them. Passing along the bogs one sees men and women busily engaged cutting turf- a species of black mud composed of decayed vegetable matter, which, after having been dried a month, is used by the natives for fuel. The Continuing by stage, a distance of eleven miles, we reached Glengariff, a charming resort surrounded by high peaks and lovely lakes. climate here is delightfully mild; flowers blooming a month in advance of the season elsewhere, while its surrounding views and historic scenes among which may be noted Cromwell's Bridge and the Martello Tower-render it a locality well worth visiting. At Glengariff we took a wagonette and drove to Killarney, a distance of 40 miles, passing through the beautiful and extensive estate of Lord Bantry, viewing at a distance "The Nob," "Eagle's Nest," and other features of the wild mountain scenery. Arriving at the Lakes of Killarney, so justly celebrated for their exceeding beauty of scenery, we contracted with the proprietor of the hotel to send ponies, boats and carriages to different points on the lakes. At an early hour in the morning we drove, attended by a guide, a distance of nine miles to the Gap of Dunloe; stopping en route at the Castle and Cave of Dunloe, at the cottage of St. Patrick, the tutelary saint of Ireland, near which, legend avers, he exterminated the last of the Irish snakes; and at the home of Kate Kearney, where one of her descendants dispenses "mountain dew" to the thirsty wayfarer. At the entrance to the Gap we mounted ponies, and rode a distance of five miles, through a narrow mountain defile, passing Macgillicuddy's Reeks, and several small lakes; into one of which the author of the Colleen Bawn cast his heroine. At the head of the upper lake we entered a |