I was dreaming that I met Lord Evelyn, at sunrise, in the Gap of Dunloe; that he put into my hand, with a graceful bow and striking amenity, the largest horse-pistol I ever saw, constructed, as he said, upon novel principles, by which it loaded itself, and would continue to go off until three o'clock, with appropriate airs from a musical box in the handle; that, leaving me with a kind of _Pas de Basque_, which I thought very inappropriate at such a crisis, and taking up a position twelve paces from me, he produced a weapon, similar to mine, and requested me to “blaze away;” that I was making frantic, but futile efforts to get my deadly instrument on full cock, and that my Lord, disdaining to take any advantage, was pinking the eagles, as they flew overhead; when the loud ringing of a contiguous bell recalled me to the realities of life. There is ever in these large hotels some unhappy inmate, who is unable to put himself into communication with Boots, who rings his bell with an ever-increasing energy, until he performs, at last, in his wild fury, such a continuous peal, as must bring up somebody, or bring down the rope. It is interesting to listen to these bells. First they suggest, then they entreat, then they remonstrate, then they insist, and then they curse and swear! Like the music of the Overture to _Guillaume Tell_, they begin pleasantly and peacefully, then they grow grand and warlike, _crescendo_-ing, from _andante pianissimo_, until they arrive at _allegro fortissimo_; and reminding me of a village dame, whom I heard calling from her cottage door to a child, playing in the distance, and hearing but not heeding its mother:
epithet too suggestive of the kennel for readers of polite literature.
Of course we went to see the old _Cove of Cork_, who, in a spirit of loyalty, but to the great disappointment of facetious visitors, has changed his name to _Queenstown_. We travelled by rail to _Passage_, and thence by steamer. What shall I say of this glorious haven, “_Statio bene fida carinis_,” twelve miles from city to sea? What a refreshment and gladness must it be to the weary sailor, to come from his lone voyage on “the sad sea waves,” to this safe home and refuge, to listen to the summer breeze, softly sighing in those upland groves, instead of to the tempest, as it bends the creaking mast, and to look down upon those calm and glittering waters, with the gay craft of Peace and Pleasure gliding gracefully to and fro.