nk of Shandon bells,
Whose sounds so wild would in days of childhood
Fling round my cradle their magic spells,
On this I ponder where'er I wander,
And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee;
With the bells of Shandon
That sound so grand on, etc. etc.

The river Lee runs through the handsome little city, and has often been
favourably compared with the Rhine. But Bandon must be reached, which
is easily managed in an hour by rail, and there you are met by your
host with a neat dog-cart, and good grey mare; being in light marching
order, your kit is quickly stowed away by a smart-looking groom, and
soon you find yourself tearing along at a spanking pace through the
'most Protestant' town of Bandon, where Mr. Hungerford pulls up for a
moment to point out the spot where once the old gates stood, whereon
was written the legend, 'Let no Papist enter here'. Years after, a
priest in the dead of night added to it. He wrote:

Whoever wrote this, wrote it _well_

The same is written on the gates of _Hell_.

Then up the hill past Ballymoden Church, in through the gates of Castle
Bernard, past Lord Bandon's beautiful old castle covered with exquisite
ivy, out through a second gate, over the railway, a drive of twenty
minutes in all, and so up to the gates of St. Brenda's. A private road
of about half a mile long, hedged on either side by privet and hawthorn
and golden furze, leads to the avenue proper, the entrance gate which
is flanked by two handsome deodars. It takes a few minutes more to
arrive at a large, square, ivy-clad house, and ere there is time to
take in an idea of its gardens and surroundings, the great hall door is
flung open, a little form trips down the stone steps, and almost before
the horse has come to a standstill, Mrs. Hungerford gives you indeed
the 'hearty Irish welcome' she promised.

It is now about four o'clock, and the day is growing dark. Your hostess
draws you in hastily out of the cold, into a spacious hall lighted by a
hanging Eastern lamp, and by two other lamps let into the wide circular
staircase at the lower end of it. The drawing-room door is open, and a
stream of ruddy light from half-a-dozen crimson shaded lamps, rushing
out, seems to welcome you too. It is a large, handsome room, very
lofty, and charmingly furnished, with a Persian carpet, tiny tables,
low lounging chairs, innumerable knick-knacks of all kinds, ferns,
winter flowers of every sort, screens and palms. A great fire