not left us too much exposed to the attacks of the beggars.
The seats were so low that when the car was going slowly up the hills,
we could step off and walk--so, of course, the beggars could come close
beside us. Nothing kept them off--neither laughing, nor commanding;
alms-giving, nor refusals. Drive as fast as we might, they kept up
with us--crowds of little boys and girls, and sometimes full-grown men
and women. Some of the children were exceedingly handsome, with black
hair and eyes, and dark olive skins--descendants, it is said, of the
Spaniards, who, in the time of Queen Elizabeth, invaded Ireland.

The Lakes of Killarney would scarcely be called _lakes_ in our country,
where we boast such grand inland seas under that name. They are small,
but certainly very beautiful, and surrounded by delightful scenery.
They are three in number--the Upper, the Lower, and Torc Lake.

The town of Killarney has a miserable, dilapidated appearance, and is
overflowing with beggars. We did not stop here, however, but at a
hotel a mile or two away, on the northern shore of the Lower Lake--a
most charming situation. A little way out of the town, we had stopped
to visit Torc waterfall--a beautiful cascade, in a wild and shady
glen--one of the very finest sights of that region.

In the morning, we set out early on an excursion through the Gap of
Dunloe, to the Upper Lake. This time I was mounted on a fleet-footed
pony, which gave me an advantage over the beggars. One friend rode
beside me; the others were, as usual, on a jaunting car.

The "Gap" is a long, dark, rocky pass, with a noisy stream, called the
Loe, rushing through it. On the right, are the mountains called the
Reeks; on the left, the Toomies, and the "Purple Mountain." On
reaching the Upper Lake, we left our ponies and car, and embarked in a
boat, which was awaiting us, for a row down a still, silvery, and
fairy-like sheet of water. Passing many green and flowery
islands--always in sight of grand mountains and lovely shores--we
entered upon "the long range"--a sort of river, connecting the lakes.
On this stands old "Eagle's Nest," a mountain about eleven hundred feet
in height, on whose summit the eagles have built their nests for
centuries.

It is principally remarkable for the fine echoes which it gives forth.
Our guide played the bugle before it, and every note came back, clear
and sweet.

Mrs. Hall, in her beautiful book on Ireland, relates an amusing s