It is to be regretted that when these flashes of wit set the table in a roar no one thought of jotting down the happy conceit, and few can recall them when the banquet is over.

I must conclude these records of the genius of this gifted member of the Munster Circuit with his impromptu lines upon hearing of the death of another distinguished member of the Circuit, upon whose tomb few complimentary wreaths are placed. When the Lord Chancellor, Earl of Clare, died, Lysaght wrote,

"Cold is thy heart, hush'd is thy voice;

Around thy sacred urn,

Rapine, and Fraud, and Guilt rejoice, While Truth and Justice mourn.'

Besides those I have enumerated, many others claim mention. The present learned and amiable Baron Fitzgerald is, I believe, a Clare man. Mr. Peter O'Brien, another worthy member of the family of Hon. Judge O'Brien, bids fair to sustain the credit of his ancient race. Nicholas Purcell O'Gorman, Q.C., for many years chairman for the county of Kilkenny, was a native of County Clare. We shall refer to him later

on.

The journey from Ennis to Limerick, now traversed by rail, was formerly a pleasant drive of a few hours through a picturesque and interesting country. The last time I traversed this road was in company with a highly intelligent magistrate of Clare and his accomplished wife. They were anxious to show me some beautiful ruins; and as a brief notice of them may serve to present a variety to the events we shall presently relate, I venture to give them place, as forming part of the Munster Circuit. Mr. Frost told me much about Ned Lysaght. Many members of the family are

buried in the churchyard of Kelfenora. He copied one inscription, which is thus carved on the stone: "Non quisquam depandavi me sæpe fefelli Marte Baccho Venereque tributa dedi Patricio Lysaght obiit 1712. Etatis sic 85."

While thus conversing about the natives of Clare, the stately remains of Quin Abbey came in view. Beautiful in decay, how noble must it have been in the days of its pride! I could not help thinking how little is known of the pious inmates of these cloistered walls, which in so many places in Ireland adorn the scenery. It is not so with the owners of feudal castles. Bunratty has its history, Creggan its story, but I failed to discover much about the Abbey of Quin. Possibly, the different ways in which the occupants passed their time may account for this. The warrior chief passed his days in war or rapine, taking enemies in the field, or preys of cattle from the plain; while the peaceful and uniform lives of the monks went tranquilly on, as the river that flowed beside them; and there was little to hand down to posterity save accounts of their piety or charity. With such thoughts we drove swiftly on. Having passed through the village of Quin, we reached, the magnificent ruins of Quin Abbey. It was evidently one of the finest buildings in Ireland, and pleasantly situated on the banks of a clear rapid stream. This rivulet tumbles over the rocky bed with the same heedless impetuosity as it did centuries ago, when matin song and vesper hymn told, in notes of prayer and praise, the dawn and close of day. Sad and forsaken are the ruins now. It was not without a sigh over fallen greatness I mounted the broken steps leading to the interior. Judging from the outward walls, I was led to expect a rich treat of ecclesiastical architecture when I passed within. Nor

was I doomed to disappointment. When I reached the portal I paused to contemplate the spacious church, for the eye looked through the chancel-arch to the lofty mullioned window over the high altar, which still retains its place, though generations have passed since abbot or friar offered sacrifice there. Altars also yet stand on each side of the chancel-arch, and an arch of noble span opens the chapel to the south, most probably the lady's chapel. Here some altars yet remain. In the middle of the church, between the space in front of the high altar and the entrance, is a lofty tower, still showing its beautiful proportions to the surrounding country. Many remains of former decoration still survive the wreck of time and disfiguration of man. "The Annals of the Four Masters" inform us the monastery of Quin (Cuinehe) was founded for Franciscan friars by Lioda Cam McNamara in 1402, but Father Wadding claims a yet earlier date for this foundation.

Be that as it may, to the house of McNamara belongs the fact of placing the friars of strict observance in this beautiful monastery, and the tomb of the founder still remains, close beside the high altar. The canopy over the tomb bears traces of rich sculpture in gothic carving and five clustered pillars, the sharpness of outline and solidity of execution bidding defiance to time. The inscription, in the gothic character, is not easy to decipher, but a more recent one is sheltered

beneath the canopy. It is surmounted by the arnis of McNamara, anciently a very powerful sept in Thomond, and still represented by several families of distinction. This tells us the monument was erected in 1433, by Macon Dall McNamara, Lord of Clancoileau, and was repaired by Captain Tenge McNamara of Rannee, in 1714.

I am happy to learn that some

effort is about being made to rescue these noble ruins from the neglect and desolation in which I beheld them.

We next reached Six-Mile Bridge, called in Irish Amhain O'Gearna, from the river flowing through the country of the O'Gearneys, or O'Kearneys. A chapel and vicarial house of the Dominicans stood here in former days, but no traces linger now. Though the village is well situated, it does not show any signs of present prosperity. Some years ago, when Colonel Vandeleur contested the county of Clare on Conservative principles with the Liberal candidates, a melancholy collision took place here between some men conducting Colonel Vandeleur's voters to the court-house to poll with the country people. The military was ordered to load with ball, and fired among the people, and several lives were lost. A varied line of country brought us to a broad lake reposing beneath a ridge of mountains; and from its brink, boldly situated upon a lofty rock, rose, massive and strong, the tower called Creggan.

A few years ago this ancient specimen of a chieftain's stronghold was a mouldering ruin; sheep roamed at will from postern to bastion, the mountain goat cropped the ivy that clustered on its walls or the grass that grew over the empty moat; but its picturesque site and capabilities attracted the notice of an English clergyman, the Rev. John Harvey Ashworth, and, by the expenditure of a very considerable sum of money, and an equal amount of architectural skill, he has converted this fast tumbling ruin into a strong tower, likely to form for ages a comfortable dwelling. My host and I scrambled along the rough valley watered by the lake, over which stands the rock, crowned by the tall tower. The castle, almost

inaccessible, was surrounded on three sides by the lake, and then defended by a moat, now dry. There was no town or outworks that I could trace, and on gaining entrance we found ourselves in a good-sized hall, fitted up with a modern kitchen range and other appliances for cooking, of which the O'Briens or M'Namaras of former days had no experience. Instead of the spiral steps of stone leading to the rooms overhead we mounted wooden steps, and soon beheld a goodly apartment wainscoted with oak richly carved; bay windows of plate-glass afforded excellent light and extensive views of the surrounding district. Yet higher, we visited smaller chambers, evidently intended for bedrooms, but the good taste which regulated the rooms below did not soar so high. Common bedroom paper, of poor design, formed a strong contrast to ancient doors and stone casements. We climbed to the roof, and here my host pointed out the Broadfoot bills, the castles of Dangan, Kilkishan, Knappogue, and the beautiful ruin we lately visited, Quin Abbey.

Creggan Tower formerly belonged to the celebrated associate of O'Connell, Tom Steele. His mansion, Cullam, lay in the valley beneath; but this accomplished and very eccentric individual preferred to occupy the solitary tower, even before its present renovation, to his more comfortable house. He meditated restoring Creggan, but his eager desire for political notoriety caused him to abandon house and land, and to devote all the energies of his ardent nature to advance the cause of what he deemed nationality. This left the restoration of Creggan tower to English clergyman, whose taste and judgment is most creditable. How I wish other ruins in Clare and other counties in Ireland

an

fell into equally competent hands desiring their restoration.

Our road was next over a rich and well-cultivated country; but not far off were the wild and rugged hills separating Clare from Galway, and the Shannon flowed along lovely banks, fed by many tributaries. Some were rapid mountain streams, tumbling over beds of rock, overhung with waving trees, the leaves golden with autumnal tints. A venerable house, called Atterbury Lodge, was pointed out as we drove by. Its pointed gables and casemented windows, mantled with ivy, gave it an appearance strikingly picturesque. The name also indicated it owed its erection to other than Irish taste. I asked how it gained the name of the celebrated Bishop of Rochester, and my erudite host said, "After the bill of pains and penalties had been passed against the bishop, in 1723, he was sentenced by the Lords to be deprived of all his offices, banished the realm, and sentenced to death in case of return. He went to France, accompanied by his daughter. While in France Miss Atterbury was married to the Rev. Mr. Morice, who had been a fellow-student at Oxford with William, third Earl of Thomond. This nobleman told his friend, the Rev. Mr. Morice, that he (Lord Thomond) had the right of presentation to several benefices in Thomond, and if Mr. Morice would accept half a dozen livings in Ireland he was quite welcome to them. This liberal offer was promptly accepted. The Rev. Mr. Morice became rector of a union of parishes in the vicinity of Six-Mile Bridge, county Clare; and he built this quaint and picturesque house, which he called Atterbury Lodge, after his distinguished father-in-law." It is at present on the property of my host.

Not far from this ancient edifice stands another, also belonging to my friend, and called "The Lodge,"

having formerly been a lodge or hunting dwelling of the lords of Thomond. This also claimed my notice. It is a prettily-situated, convenient mansion, with wellarranged rooms; but my friend's wife declined to occupy it, from the melancholy associations connected with its site. Clare, as well as its proximate county of Galway, was remarkable in the days when duelling was a common mode of settling all differences between gentlemen, for the number of its so-called affairs of honour. In Ireland, sixty years ago, no gentleman could take his proper place in the society of that day who had not "smelt powder," and the lawn of the Lodge was a favourite place for such meetings. The occupant in the early part of the present century was Mr. Samuel Spaight, subsheriff of the county Clare. friend of his, Mr. Bridgeman, with several others, dined with him. After dinner one day, when the punch was circulating, a servant told Mr. Bridgeman "he was wanted outside."

A

At the hall door Mr. Bridgeman saw his herdsman, who told him "a number of his cattle were sent to the pound for trespass, by orders of Mr. Spaight." Bridgeman, incensed at this proceeding, returned to the dining-room. "Sam,” said he, are you aware my cattle have been sent to pound ?" "Quite aware of it. I told my steward not to allow any man's cattle to trespass on my property," replied Mr. Spaight. "Then you and your -!" cried the enraged property be owner of the impounded beasts. "If I was not in my own house, and you one of my guests, I'd pound you," cried the master of the mansion. "Don't let fastidiyour ousness stop you, my tight fellow," replied Mr. Bridgman. "If you're willing to go out, I'm at your service," said Mr. Spaight, rising from the table. "I beg your par

don, gentlemen, for leaving you for a short time. Here, Mr. Bridgemau, are two brace of pistols, ready for use. Take your choice. Con M'Namara will be my second, and I dare say Mick Malony will act for you." Both gentlemen nodded acquiescence, and the quartette left the room. The moon shone clear as a noonday sun, and twelve paces of the ground was measured near the Lodge. The principals were placed, and the word "Fire" caused both pistols to explode. Mr. Spaight missed, but Mr. Bridgeman left his host quivering on the daisies. He received a ball in the seat of honour that lamed him for life.

A still more fatal encounter took place later, when a Mr. Howard fought Mr. Foley, and shot him. dead. These incidents made such an impression on the lady's mind, she could not be induced to occupy a dwelling to which such memories were attached.

A few miles nearer to Limerick is Bunratty, on the bank of the river Ratty, a tributary of the Shannon. This regal keep, for centuries, was the chosen seat of the kings of Thomond. It is impossible to look upon its lofty towers, and sturdy battlements, soaring high above the surrounding woods, without being impressed with its feudal grandeur. The night was closing round as we mounted the steps leading into the vaulted hall, and ascended to the spacious chambers where the O'Briens of Thomond ruled in days of yore. When the Anglo-Norman invaders came to Ireland this was the site of the palace of Donald O'Brien, King of Thomond, and here monarch after monarch lived and died, until, in A.D. 1276, Edward I. made a grant of the barony of Bunratty to Thomas de Clare, who built the castle and strongly fortified it. He had need to do so. The storm of battle speedily raged around Bun

ratty. The O'Briens rose in their might and defeated the Anglo-Normans. They were pursued to the very towers of Bunratty, and forced to seek shelter within the walls of the fortress. Seldom a year then passed without fierce wars desolating the district, and history states. that, in 1322, the castle was taken and razed to the ground by the O'Briens of Thomond. It was again rebuilt by Con M'Shuda M'Namara. It soon again was held by the O'Briens, for it was in the heart of their kingdom, and remained in their possession until the reign of Elizabeth. In the year 1588 the army of the Earl of Essex, Elizabeth's unfortunate viceroy, besieged it. He took it by storm from Sir Donal O'Brien, whom he proclaimed a traitor. The castle was next given to one of the race of O'Brien, who did homage to England's Queen, and became Earl of Thomond. During the wars between Cromwell and the Confederated Catholics, Bunratty was It was stoutly contended for. captured by the Earl of Inchiquin, though bravely held by the troops of the Commonwealth; retaken by Lord Forbes, by means of a fleet sailing on the Shannon, when, according to Ludlow's Memoirs, no less than two thousand pounds sterling was found buried in the walls, and as many as sixty horses were in the stables. A garrison of considerable strength, left here by Cromwell, was not able to resist the attack of the Irish under Lord Muskerty, to whom it capitulated on honourable terms after a siege of six weeks. Having sufficient light to survey the interior, we passed through the various rooms which, until lately, were occupied by the present possessor, Mr. Studdert's family. Traces of rich decorations remain, and the chapel, in one of the square towers, must have been especially beautiful.