ves, while on
one side a round tower lifted itself as if to show that a stone tower
could stand for six hundred years without permitting itself to become
ivy-grown; that there could be individuality in towers as among men. The
great arched gateway too was not entirely subjugated, though the climbing
tendrils and velvety leaves dressed the pillars and encroached on the
arch. The keystone bore a rudely carved, crowned head, and ivy vines,
coming up underneath the arch, to take the old king by surprise, climbed
the bearded chin, crossed the lips, and were playing before the nose as if
to give it a sportive tweak, while the stern brow frowned in anger at the
plant's presumption.

But only a few surly crags of the citadel refused to go gracefully into
the retirement furnished by the ivy, and the loving plant softened every
outline, filled up every crevice, bridged the gaps in the walls, toned
down the rudeness of projecting stones, and did everything that an
ivy-plant could do to make the rugged old castle as presentable as were
the high rounded mounds without the city, cast up by the besiegers when
the enemy last encamped against it.

[Illustration: A Modern Irish Village]

The old castle had fallen on evil days, for around the walls of the
citadel clustered the miserable huts of the modern Irish village. The
imposing castle gate faced a lane, muddy and foul with the refuse thrown
from the houses. The ivy-mantled towers looked down upon earth and stone
huts, with thatched roofs, low chimneys, and doors seeming as if the
builder designed them for windows and changed his mind without altering
their size, but simply continued them to the ground and made them answer
the purpose. A population, notable chiefly for its numerousness and lack
of cleanliness, presented itself at every door, but little merriment was
heard in the alleys of Athenry.

"Sure it's mighty little they have to laugh at," said the car-man.
"Indade, the times has changed fur the counthry, Sorr. Wanst Ireland was
as full o' payple as a Dublin sthrate, an' they was all as happy as a
grazin' colt, an' as paceful as a basket av puppies, barrin' a bit o' fun
at a marryin' or a wake, but thim times is all gone. Wid the landlords,
an' the guver'mint, an' the sojers, an' the polis, lettin' in the rich an'
turnin' out the poor, Irishmin is shtarvin' to death. See that bit av a
cabin there, Sorr? Sure there's foorteen o' thim in it, an' two pigs, an'