What variety and beauty is there in the walks; what views around and across Torbay. What cliff-climbing and skirting amid the fragrant and abundant brushwood which clothes and half conceals the precipices which overhang the sea. What food for the eye is there in every varying bend of the curving coast; what mingling of colours of green foliage and red marble cliff; what entanglement of rock and tree; what mysteries of light and shade which the half-idle, half-active mind delights in dreaming over, if not unravelling! And if these tire, as sometimes mere waywardness suggests, close at hand is that wonderful Kent's Cavern, with its winding corridors, its stalactic roof and its rude floor, all alike so rich in relics of pre-historic man and of his wild surroundings. Here are fragments of his flint implements, his rude pottery, even of the charcoal he burned; and around are the bones of the rhinoceros, the elephant, the lion, the wolf, the bear and the hyena, with the arrow-heads and spear-heads with which he slew this ancient fauna of England. Coming out from these gloomy and suggestive caverns into the warm, bright summer light again, we soon find ourselves at St. Mary-Church, where the piety of a convert has recently built a noble Gothic church under Our Lady's invocation, and thus given fresh significance to the old name of the pretty village.

We are not writing a guide-book, but only penning some brief notes, and so content ourselves with recalling Brixham, at the extreme end of the Torbay, renowned for a constitution which, like everything in the place, is fishy. The Lords of Brixham are Brixham fishermen. The manor, it seems, was purchased by twelve fishermen some years ago, whose portions have been divided and subdivided, but still the title goes with even the smallest share, and each owner is a "quay lord." There are some two hundred sail of trawlers, with sixteen hundred fishermen to man them, but of course all these are not Lords.

It has its place in English history, as a monument on the sea-wall fails not to record; for here William of Orange landed in 168, coming, as he truly said in his broken English," for all your goods," though the monument fails to record this royal speech. Quaint and with quite a character of its own is Brixham, scarcely to be described, but not soon to be forgotten. It fills one of those corners in memory where odds-and-ends store themselves, which, having no seeming connection with anything else, some

how put themselves snugly away, almost without any effort or intention on our part, and so crop up unexpectedly when may be we are idly gazing in the fire, and reconstruct their features in the burning coals. But Brixham has a dangerous rival in this respect in Dartmouth, a place of greater pretension and wider renown. But of Dartmouth and its river, and our later wanderings in Cornwall, we hope to say something in another paper. HENRY BEDFORD.

LEIXLIP CASTLE AND THE VALLEY OF THE

FASHIO

LIFFEY.

In the

ASHION is a fickle and a powerful ruler. matter of dress it is supreme, but to limit its influence to that would, as we know by experience, be very unjust to fashion. It takes in a far wider range, and we would not, we believe, be far wrong in saying that there is a fashion in almost everything. A hundred years ago it was the fashion to build dwellings in low situations, in order to secure shelter; and specimens of this fashion are not unfrequent in parts of the country, even now; later it was regarded as the right thing to build on elevations for sake of the view, and to secure air that was pure and bracing. Again a couple of generations back, the denizens of our cities, especially those of Dublin, usually journeyed inland for health, recreation, and scenery; the sea-side being then regarded as a health resort for invalids, and, like physic, to be taken by medical advice. For ordinary mortals in ordinary health a month at the "salt water" was considered to be abundantly sufficient, for one whole year at least. Few, except those compelled by circumstances, chose the sea-side for a permanent residence; to do so was deemed neither prudent nor agreeable. There are, perhaps, some amongst us who can recall a time when the Black Rock, a village only four miles south of Dublin, was the Ultima Thule of an ordinary Dublin citizen's Sabbath drive by the sea, and hence the road from Dublin in that direction was, by eminence, known as "The Rock Road," as if beyond it there was no place to go to, or at least no place worth going to. To that final stage or terminus

numerous cars and jingles plied every day, but in greatly increased numbers on Sundays. What a row and a rattle they made, to be sure! and vast were the clouds of dust they raised on a sunny Summer day, as the jarvies urged forward their jaded, overworked, and frequently ill cared for horses. There were fixed fares to Black Rock, but no further. A party that made up their mind to dine at the pretty kitchen in Old Dunleary, or to wander over the wilds of Dalkey Common, would have to make arrangements some days beforehand for the journey.

In those days Lucan, Leixlip, and the whole valley of the Liffey to the Salmon Leap, were the more fashionable, and by far the more enjoyable excursions; and for sweet and varied woodland scenery, lighted up by a beautiful sparkling river, the valley of the Liffey stands unmatched in the neighbourhood of the capital, and the present writer has no hesitation in asserting that the junction of the Ryewater with the Liffey under Leixlip Castle, is far more beautiful than that other Meeting of the Waters which Moore has wedded to immortal verse.

All is changed now. To-day the sea-board south of Dublin, once so bleak and neglected, is lined with charming villas, which, viewed from the bay, seem a string of bright pearls fringing the "laughing waters," whilst there is besides, a back ground of detached residences, set like so many gems in the beauteous landscape.

The sea has triumphed and not without much reason; still it would not be just to treat inland scenery with unmerited neglect; permit me, then, gentle reader, to plead for a few moments, the cause of dear old Anna Liffey and its surroundings. With this object in view let us make a short excursion up the river, and let us "hear, see, and say nothing," till we get clear of the city smoke at Lucan. Irishmen love their country very dearly, which is fully proved by the fact that they have fought and bled for it longer than any other people have done for theirs ; and the study of its history-which is their history, will enlarge their hearts and intensify their affections for it. We are now at Lucan. There was an Earl of Lucan of James the Second's creation, and his name was Patrick Sarsfield. Does that name sound strange in Irish ears? No, certainly. Is there a man living to-day on this soil of Ireland worthy the name of Irishman, whose heart does not throb quicker, and whose blood does not rush in a warmer current through his veins at the name of

Patrick Sarsfield? It was here he drew his first breath— it was here he began that glorious life which he laid down on the field of Landen, on the 19th of July, 1693. Only think of his chivalrous love of country! Feeling that he had received a mortal wound, he moved his hand towards his heart with the object of discovering where the wound was. He drew it back covered with blood; looking at it for a moment or two, the great soldier exclaimed, "Oh, that this was for Ireland!"

At the fine and graceful one-arch bridge of Lucan, we can enter the grounds of St. Catharine's, which extend along the left or northern bank of the river from Lucan to Leixlip. The place is called St. Catharine's, because here in the year of grace 1219, there was founded by Warresius de Peche a religious house for the Canons Regular of St. Victor, which pious act he performed "for the health of his soul and those of his ancestors and successors." In the grounds there is still to be seen the well-the Holy Well-which was an important accessory of every religious house. This well, I suppose we may call it St. Catharine's Well, is surrounded by a protecting wall, enclosed by a door, and is admirably kept in every respect. Lately there has been discovered near it a female head sculptured in marble, which, although much defaced, is evidently the work of a skilled artist. It is supposed to have belonged to a statue of St. Catharine, which once stood at the well. Opposite St. Catharine's, on the right or southern bank of the Liffey, skirting that beautiful reach of the river from Lucan to Leixlip, and ornamented with some of the finest forest trees in Ireland, is the demesne of Lucan House, once the property and the home of the Sarsfields."

Emerging from St. Catharine's we find ourselves at the bridge of Leixlip, taking our stand on the centre of which, and looking westwards, we are face to face with Leixlip Castle, which famous stronghold towers in feudal dignity above the junction of the Ryewater and the Liffey. In A.D. 1169, Adam de Hereford landed in Ireland with Fitzstephen, and soon after, Strongbow, commonly known in old chronicles as Earl Richard, made him a grant of the manor of Leixlip, together with Cloncurry, Kille, Houterard, and Donning In the year 1219, he or his son, called in

1 Rob in Turr. Lond. See "Leixlip Castle," by a Kildare Archæologist, p. 6.

2 Within the demesne and near the village is the Lucan Sulphur Spa. 3 Harris's "Hibernica,” p. 42.

the grant Sir Adam de Hereford, Lord of Leixlip, "enfeoffed the prior of St. Catharine's with a carucate of land in the lordship of Leixlip for the maintaining of six chaplains to pray for the souls of all his progenitors."

Leixlip Castle is still occupied as a residence, and a charming residence it is, a large portion of it having been adapted to modern ideas of comfort by various occupants, but enough still remains of its battlements and towers and walls of six feet in thickness to tell the story of its ancient strength and military importance. And like all old castles of the true type, it can boast of

"Windows that exclude the light

And passages that lead to nothing."

From time to time it has had under its roof very distinguished visitors. There is a tradition that King John resided here for a portion of the time he was in Ireland, and the tradition gains strength from the fact that one of the chief rooms in the castle is still known as "the King's room." But a greater than King John was there-no less a man than the hero of Bannockburn himself. Edward Bruce landed in Ulster in the year 1315, " with a power of Scottes and Red-Shankes," where he achieved considerable successes, and having fought his way southwards to Dundalk, he there had himself crowned King of Ireland. Numbers of the Irish joined him. They had suffered so much from their Norman invaders, whose whole object seems to have been plunder, that they were only too glad to follow Bruce, in order to have an opportunity of fighting against them: it is even on record that many English placed themselves under Bruce's standard. Although Edward Bruce was almost always victorious, still no important object had been gained by him; he took no firm hold of any part of the country, it was all fighting and burning. His brother Robert came to his assistance in 1317, the laurels of Bannockburn still fresh upon his brow, for he had fought and won that famous battle only three years before. The two brothers marched upon Dublin and encamped at Castleknock; but the citizens burned the suburbs on their approach, and

1 A carucate of land was a plough land. i.e., as much land as could be ploughed by one plough in a year. The exact quantity of land in a carucate has not been defined, but is variously estimated at from 60 to 120 acres. A carucate is sometimes called "a hide of land."

2 Spencer's View of the State of Ireland, p. 26. Dublin, Reprint, 1809.