uities, but some of its modern buildings are very
fine. The country around Cork is exceedingly picturesque, and its
harbor is very beautiful. The city itself is about twelve miles from
the mouth of the harbor, upon the River Lee.

We had letters of introduction to a gentleman living at Monkstown,
about six miles below the city, and on the day after our arrival, we
took the steamboat and went down to his residence. We were received
with warm Irish hospitality, and throughout that day and the next,
every thing that our friend and his family could do for our enjoyment
was done in the pleasantest and heartiest way. They took us boating up
and down the noble bay--driving along the shores, and walking over
their estate. There was always a large, lively party, and we had the
merriest times imaginable. They made a pic-nic for us, on Cove Island,
but a rain coming on, we took refuge in an old, old castle, where we
feasted, and jested, and laughed, and sung songs, and even danced, in
the rough and gloomy halls in which, hundreds and hundreds of years
ago, were gathered barbaric Irish chieftains--grim, terrible
fellows--parading the spoils of the chase, or the plunder of war.

A little way back from their house, our friends have another
ruin--Monkstown Castle. This was built in 1636--tradition says at only
the cost of a groat. Of course, the statement was a puzzle to me, when
I first heard it, but it was soon explained. The estate belonged, at
that time, to John Archdeken, who, while serving with the army abroad,
left his wife in charge of his property. She was a thrifty woman, and
determined to surprise him on his return by a noble residence, which
should cost very little. So she hired workmen, with the privilege of
supplying them with all their provisions and articles of clothing.
These she purchased by wholesale, and though she sold them at the
ordinary retail price, found in the end, that the profits had only
fallen short of paying the expenses of building, one groat.

It came very hard for us to part from our kind friends at
Monkstown--but it has by no means been hard to keep them in loving
remembrance.

Just a pleasant drive from Cork is Blarney Castle--a noble ruin,
towering above a beautiful little lake, all surrounded by delightful,
though neglected grounds--made famous by an old comic song, called "The
Groves of Blarney."

This stronghold was built in the fifteenth century, by the great chief,
Cormac Mac