Lough Corrib is a wild and picturesque lake, beautifully dotted with islands. On its border the ruined castle of the O’Flahertys is one of the many evidences of the ancient prowess of this fallen people. Between the immense banqueting-hall, whose floor is now overgrown with rank grass, and the massive square tower which still defies the ravages of time, we found an old woman “who was there to keep the place warm,” we were informed, living in what had probably been a guard-room. I think all of us when among ruins have peopled them with fierce warriors and gentle ladies, and heard the hautboys and clink of goblets, the hurrying feet of servants, and the slow and dignified steps that were in those times the measure of their dance. But as I looked from the ruined window whence, perhaps, many a fair Irish girl, as elegant, as spirituelle, as bright with vivid white and red, and raven hair, as now, watched the feather of her knight disappear over the neighboring hill, I saw not one but a dozen deserted, unroofed huts. The crows fluttered in and out overhead, and seemed to give a dismal cadence to the words of the English historian, Mr. Froude, which echoed through my brain: “Industry had taken root: it needed only fair play to develop Ireland into the rival of England; it needed only justice and political equality to have made an end of Irish misery.” As I recalled these words I looked upon the lake that feeds the river Gallire, which is one of the finest water-power streams in the world, never varying in volume winter or summer, flowing through an unexcelled wool-growing country; and I remember that Mr. Froude tells us that the woolen manufactures of this district were killed by English laws, actuated by English jealousy. To tell the truth, I felt more sentimental, more prone to sound a plaintive strain, than my readers, even considering the fact that I am a woman, would excuse. I leave, therefore, the political side of the question—which, indeed, I do not feel competent to pronounce upon—descend the worn stairs that wind down the tower, and, calling Flanigan, depart. To dilate upon the ancient prowess and glory of this people, who have sunk from generation to generation, not only from the want of practical justice, but because the simplest fair dealing which Christians grant to Turks has been denied them, would be to mock them. Come, Flanigan, let us to our journey, and let novelty efface from our minds the grave questions which are beyond our ken! The ruined cottages and sad, untilled fields are, after all, more picturesque than pale fences or well-tilled patches, and the wind that bears the sigh of Tara’s harp to every crumbling wall built by hands of those who thought their children would nestle there is sweeter perhaps to the ear than the blacksmith’s hammer or the plowman’s horse-talk.

Evening was drawing on, yet I did not wish to stop at Oughterard, which even now was in sight. On referring to Murray, I found that there was a good hotel at Recess, where I purposed spending the night, and was then too inexperienced in Irish traveling to doubt the guide that had so well informed me as to other countries. En passant, let me advise the reader, if he would avoid a thousand mistakes and annoyances, to place no faith in a Murray’s Ireland that does not bear a later date than that at which I write. In my simplicity I referred to Flanigan, and he — thinking, doubtless, that he might risk his word on so good authority as Murray — avowed that there was a fine hotel at Recess, one of the best in Ireland. I did not then know that an Irishman will always say yes to any question upon which he is uninformed.