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YOU find Scotch Ireland in the north, English Ireland in the east, and Irish Ireland in the west and southwest." So I was assured by an old gentleman on shipboard, to whom I am under great obligations for so giving me my points of compass, and, in fact, a very compass; for without these fixed points it seems to me that I must have drifted through Ireland in an aimless way altogether discouraging. Never were three sections of country more strongly marked than are these three in Ireland, when once one has the clue to geography and history. In the north lies Londonderry, neat, thrifty, industrious, comely and Presbyterian far more Scotch and Irish.

In the west crouches poor half-starved Galway, amongst beautiful landscapes, in the very heart of a section of country upon which Heaven seems to smile, to which the sun seems very near, and upon which the rains fall gently and lovingly. With all these natural advantages, Galway is so poor, so unutterably wretched, that, hundreds of miles away at this writing, I involuntarily shut my eyes in thinking of the scenes that must always represent Galway. Squalid, yet to a certain extent placid, holding easily one end of the tangled web of life, drifting steadily away from all that is pure and good towards all that is careless and brutal, withal, thoroughly priest-ridden, surely the western country is "Irish Ireland."

In the east, upon her throne of wealth, culture and magnificence, sits Dublin, looking benignantly and with an occasional nod of approval upon her courtiers, Belfast and Londonderry, and ignoring, with the true English stare, hungry Galway. Handsome, cultured, stately and severe; tolerant of liberal Church views, yet with a deep-seated devotion to the Established Church; proud of her lineage, and watchful of her dignity, Dublin is essentially English.

There is, as the Country Parson says, a vast deal in "the way of putting things," and in the feminine conclusion, a vast deal depends upon which side of a question one

reads last. For myself I am painfully conscious of doing a great amount of tilting upon a kind of mental seesaw, going up or down with whichever writer I happen to be tilting at the moment, leaving the other end of the board to take care of itself. Reading Tom Moore's Irish Ballards, I invariably kept upon his end of the seesaw; but when it came to Froude, I gradually slid over to the other end, and in my own mind, asserted an independent opinion. But alas for a woman's independent opinions! Travelling in Ireland has so far modified my views of both sides that I find my board evenly balanced, though perhaps there is a bit of extra weight on the side of Moore.

Theoretical sympathy for the Irish nation is the easiest thing in the world to feel; but if such sympathy is a difficult plant to keep alive in the face of all the cold blasts that the Irish in America blow upon it, how much more easily does it wither in Ireland, where one sees the people as they are, without the veil of romance that Moore throws over them, and, clearly, ambitious to leave the country only because they have the idea that by emigration the gates of America are to be opened to them, -a Paradise, with unlimited though undefinable luxuries and joys. Gradually, but not very slowly, the west and southwest of the country are being drained by the stream of emigration. Many of the Irish mourn this fact; others congratulate themselves upon it, arguing that "as many goes away to Ameriky, work and wages is far better for them as stays behind." We were assured in Galway that a chief workman in stone could now earn his four shillings per day (about one dollar and twelve cents in U. S. currency), while two years ago the same man could earn but two shillings per day for the same work. This is very well; but there are few master workmen in the region of Galway, and, as a car driver told us "the work is all done." There is no wood. The houses, the railway stations, even the little thatched "shanties" are built of stone, and fortunately for the owners, will probably last for centuries. If the

powerful railway corporations of America were but capable of receiving impressions upon such subjects, it might be for the interest of a few towns upon some well established routes, to send an excursion of Railway Directors into Ireland, that they might read, mark, learn and inwardly digest the lesson taught by the beauty and durability of railway stations in the meanest towns of the west of Ireland.

"Stone is the largest crop we have, and labor is cheap," is the explanation given. I gazed in admiration at the beautiful little stations dotted all over the country, at the stone work surrounding the stations for miles, at the strong, handsome bridges over railway crossings, and over rivers, and I groaned in spirit that our American newspapers should daily be so blotted with direful news of the burning of some railway station with its surroundings, and of the carrying away of some wooden bridge. If America had time to do things more thoroughly, it would surely be cause for congratulation among us.

Aside from the people, always "strongly national" in their ways, and unlike any other people, and from these beautiful railway stations, I should say that the distinctive features of Ireland are the bogs and the Round Towers. Apparently they are nearly equal in age, the Irish dating both from the creation. Antiquarians confess themselves utterly at a loss as regards these towers, and undoubtedly their mystery is a powerful element of their charm. There are twenty-nine, I believe, in Ireland, varyin height from seventy to one hundred and twenty feet, and having almost uniformly a diameter of about fifteen feet. They are all constructed precisely alike, of stone, with but one narrow door, often fifteen feet from the ground, and no windows save three or four apertures near the top of the tower. There may have been stairways, and those who believe them to have been watch towers, or bell towers, claim that there are yet traces of stairways, with an occasional landing, but to the ordinary eye there are traces of nothing; it is simply a smooth surface within and without. What an opportunity for St. Simon Stylites! Some persons believe them to have been occa

sional stations for pilgrims. Although it was at one time attempted to prove that the Danes erected these strange buildings, all now agree that the Round Towers were old when the Danes invaded Ireland, and nearly all agree also, that the Druids must have used them for religious purposes. The Tower that we visited is near Dublin, in the village of Clondalkin. It looks down now upon tiny thatched roofs, but it requires no great stretch of the imagination to see at its foot the sacred grove and well of the Druids, the circle of stones about the altar, the unhewn pillars, — symbol of the sun; and climax of all, the burnt offering of first-born children, so horrible in its nature that the scene of the sacrifice was called by the Druids of Ireland "The Place of Slaughter," and by the Eastern Druids, "The Valley of Shrieking."

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Frequent traces of Druidical worship are found in parts of Ireland, and many writers and antiquarians trace a strong relation between the early Irish worship of the sun and fire, and the worship of the same gods in the Eastern countries. In the bogs of Ireland are sometimes found golden ornaments in the shape of the crescent, and these are supposed to be relics of the Druidical worship of the moon, an outgrowth of sun worship. Even now bonfires are kindled throughout Ireland on the first night of May, a custom springing, so say the students of these things, from the Baal Fire of the Druids.

Moore believes these Round Towers to have been built for purposes of fire worship, and goes so far as to declare his faith in the theory that they were built expressly and solely to keep the sacred flame from pollution.

Limerick, of old an important town, but now of little consequence, has from time to time yielded rich treasures to relic hunters. In the antiquarian collection of Dublin are collars, head-dresses, finger rings, ear-rings, necklaces and bracelets of beaten gold, found in or near Limerick, from eighteen to twenty feet below the surface of the earth. Here, too, is the "Brooch of Tara," a marvel of filagree work in gold. All these things are to a degree peculiar to the country, but the brooches and the ear-rings

are so like our own in design that it is difficult to realize that they have lain under the earth for centuries.

There are certain things which Dublin people and Dublin guide books tell you can be seen only upon procuring a card of admission from some trustee. In Great Britain generally, and in Dublin especially, a fee of sixpence judiciously administered to the doorkeeper, will admit you to anything. No cards.

For sixpence one may see a book of manuscript poems, written in Irish seven hundred years ago, and with leaves now mouldering and blackened ; St. Columbkill's manuscript, never, for fear of instant death, taken from its shrine till recently, and belonging to the great O'Donnells, who, in war carried it into battle upon their banners; "the Harp that once through Tara's Hall" rang sweetly; the shrine in which St. Patrick's tooth is religiously kept; and old, old monuments, with quaint inscriptions, till one is too tired to stand or to read.

All though Ireland this is true of sightseeing. A fee shows you all things, whatever they may be.

The bogs of Ireland are well known to have caused the name of " Bog Trotters" to be attached to a class of our Irish population. This name has a local and literal meaning in Ireland, where the bogs cover acres and acres in extent. The bogs are peat or turf bogs, and the turf is often forty feet deep. When wet by rains or by overflowing rivers it swells like a sponge, and at such times a man sinks in the turf as

quickly and as hopelessly as in quicksand; therefore it is often unsafe for any one unaccustomed to the bogs to venture upon them. While working in the bogs during rainy seasons, both men and horses wear boards upon their feet, and by means of these "pattens" and of their knowledge of the bogs, the men occasionally contrive to escape justice in the form of a pursuing policeman. Hence Bog Trotters.

The attempt to "reclaim" these bogs has generally failed, or been impeded by want of capital on the part of estate owners. The turf is cut in blocks or in small strips, and is largely used for fuel, burning

without a great amount of smoke or dirt, and being far cheaper than wood or coal. In cutting the turf, trunks and branches of the trees are found embedded far below the surface of the bog, and, being like the Round Towers, a mystery, are carefully removed.

By dint of cutting and carving, this wood soon appears in the form of scarf pins, bracelets, brooches and picture frames, to tempt travellers to the purchase of "relics of Ireland," and the wood is christened "Bog Oak." In these carvings the Shamrock is woven into almost every design, and is often combined with the Harp, the former emblem of Ireland, and with the owl and the wolf dog, both emblematic.

So small is Ireland that one cannot go more than fifty miles away from the coast in any direction; therefore its objects of interest must of necessity lie within short journeys of each other, but it is singular that its interest and its fine scenery should be wholly upon the coast, a dull gem with a brilliant setting.

For years the history of Dublin was the history of Ireland, and now everything Irish begins and ends in Dublin. The city is really magnificent, abounding in broad streets, fine statues, and spacious buildings with a cool, substantial look. Its monument of Nelson is to Dublin what the monument to Scott is to Edinburgh, an ornament and a credit. St. Patrick, in various forms, meets one at every town in Ireland, but especially in Dublin, and the cathedral bearing his name has a rich inheritance in the very spring in which St. Patrick, fourteen hundred years ago, baptized the early Christians. The cathedral has been recently restored, at an enormous cost, by a rich brewer, but enough of the old building is left to give one a feeling of half shame at being a part of the new world, so venerable does the old church appear. There are tablets to Dean Swift and to "Stella," side by side; statues of Strafford and Buckingham; and statues broken by Cromwell, as well as the transept where he stabled his horses, and the baptismal font in which he watered them. Dean Swift's desk stands beside this font, and a very sleepy imagination could picture Cromwell's stern face,