ts tide-marks on the ridgy strand,
The other with its line of weedy graves.

And, as beyond the outstretched waves of Time,
The eye of Faith a brighter land may meet;
So did I dream of some more sunny clime,
Beyond the waste of waters at my feet.

From Cahirdaniel village, the site of a Danish fort, the route extends
directly along the Kenmare Fiord, under the foot of Crohan Mountain. The
Slieve Misk and Cahar Mountains separate themselves out to win our
admiration the better. They recall Lady Dufferin's words, addressed
to other sweet mountains, where

"The sunlight sleeping
On your green banks is a picture rare,
You crowd around me like young girls peeping,
And puzzling me to say which is most fair;
As though you'd see your own sweet faces
Reflected in that smooth and silver sea
O! my blessing on those lovely places,
Though no one cares how dear they are to me."

[Illustration: _Photo, Lawrence, Dublin._ Sneem.]

[Illustration: _Photo, Lawrence, Dublin._ At Sneem.]

[Illustration: _Photo, Lawrence, Dublin._ At Sneem.]

On the road beneath Crohan, a mile north from Coad Church is St.
Kiernan's Cell, eaten into the face of the sheer rock. In this district
formerly the mines were worked and copper smelted. As the road winds
along we can see Staigue-an-or, with its cyclopean mounds, lying low and
dwarfed on the hillside. By the high mountains, where the coach-horn
sounds sweet and awakens echoes, the road comes down into the lowlands,
and from the bridge is seen beautiful landscape, with ~Sneem~ spread out
in the foreground. Under lovely beechen boughs, and through a glade of
oak and first we are ushered into

PARKNASILLA,

An ideal residence, hidden from the summer sun by a variegated veil of
the rocky garden foliage; sheltered from the winter's blast by the
Askeve Mountains and the kind shores that button themselves around its
inlet sea, of which Mr. A. P. Graves has written:

"Ocean before, the summer sky above
Who could pourtray the mountains' purple smiles--
And all the opal hues of earth and heaven,
Foam fringing forests, heather-tufted Isles;
The roseate dawn--purpureal pomps of even--
And young Atlantic's petulant, shifting wiles?
Who could do aught but mar the true expression
Where all is change? Then why a record shape
Of scenes whose nature glories in succession
From wood to wave--from wave to distant cape--
Like th