The Old Home.

The Vale Of Ovoca.

Spectacle Bridge, Lisdoonvarna.

Lawless's hotel, delgany.

The Sideboard.

"Ich sah Dich einmal

Und ich sehe Dich inimer."

The same excursion which brought me to Delgany revealed to me another charming section of the celebrated CountyWick-l o w. Less than an hour's travel by rail from Dublin conveyed me to the seaside resort of Bray, where, taking a jaunting-car, I drove directly inland toward the estate of Lord Powerscourt. The beauty of this part of Ireland is beyond description. Words can of course be used, which accurately enough define the prominent features of the landscape; but when compared with the scenes themselves, one feels that, though the body has been faithfully portrayed, its captivating spirit still eludes him and smiles upon him mockingly from every graceful hill, fair lake, and mossy glen. Leaving the jaunting-car at the eastern entrance of the Powerscourt demesne, and sending it around to meet me at a point some two miles distant, I started with an enthusiastic Irish friend to saunter through that portion of the park known as the Dargle. What an enchanting walk was that, and how the vision of its shadowy loveliness and the soft music of the river, purling on its rocky bed, still linger in my recollection! For nearly an hour we strolled along in the cool twilight of the giant trees which clothed both banks of the ravine and met above us, not as enemies but friends, with boughs and tendrils interlacing like clasped hands. Then we walked on and upward beneath canopies of oaks and elms, the blaze of scarlet flowers sometimes startling us among the sombre gray of the stones and the dark green of ivied walls. Meanwhile, below us ran the river, gurgling, murmuring, singing, or shouting, according to its distance from us, or the opposition it encountered. Suddenly, in the heart of this sylvan solitude, we met a man of considerably more than middle life, accompanied by his daughter. Naturally we exchanged greetings.

A Corner Of The Drawing-Room.

Entrance To The Powerscourt Estate.

"It is more than fifty years since I was in this country," said the old man, in a trembling voice; "I've been all that time in America, but I couldn't die without beholding Ireland once more, and I've brought my daughter here to see it with me."

"How does it look to you?" I asked him. "Oh," he replied, "I can't speak of it. It's all so beautiful, it quite unmans me."

Along The Darglb.

Beautiful County W1Cklow.

Loyal, no doubt, to his adopted land to which he was soon to return, he nevertheless was realizing here the old associations of his boyhood, of which in all probability no human souvenir remained. These tender memories, combined with the wonderful beauty of the place, and his paternal joy and pride in bringing his daughter to behold it, made his emotion easy to understand; and, as I watched them pass on, hand in hand, until the great trees hid them from my view, I felt my own eyes fill with tears.

Joining again our jaunting-car, we drove on for about five miles, without once leaving the Powerscourt estate, over a stretch of wooded hill and dale, hardly to be surpassed for natural beauty. Complaint is sometimes made that Ireland is sparsely wooded; but certainly County Wicklow is not wanting in arboreal wealth. A view from any elevation reveals luxuriant vegetation of great variety. Dense groves crown many of the knolls and charmingly diversify the vales and meadows. The fields are separated by fine hedges, or by rows of trees which are sometimes the only evidences of shy, tranquil brooks gliding around the softly swelling hills. The drive ways in the Powerscourt demesne are especially rich in noble beeches, oaks and elms, and its collection of pines is said to be one of the finest in northern Europe. The deer-park alone in this estate is measured by the square mile, and other game preserves extend for miles along the mountain sides. It is to me incomprehensible that the owner of such a piece of property should habitually absent himself from it. Yet, save for a few weeks in the shooting season, it is occupied only by servants. Where could a more delightful, restful, and inspiring residence than this be found, I asked myself, as I beheld the famous waterfall at one extremity of the grounds. For, aside from the park itself, the mansion is an imposing structure built of gray stone, turreted like a castle, furnished with every luxury, and having its own gas and electric works on the premises. Its gallery, too, is rich in art treasures. But even if its halls did not contain a single painting, the pictures always visible from its windows and extensive garden are infinitely more attractive than anything the grimy streets of London can present. A gratifying contrast to this absenteeism is the conduct of Lord Monck, whose land is separated from Lord Powerscourt's only by the frolicsome river, Dargle. This gentleman spends the entire year among his people, and, I was told, is greatly beloved by them. But, serious as the evil of absenteeism is to Ireland, the Irish peasant knows, as usual, how to jest about it. Thus, to his Irish guide, who had been pointing out to him a number of localities under the names of "The Devil's Glen," "The Devil's Bridge," and similar Satanic titles, an English tourist remarked: