which are from ten to twenty feet in height, are now supposed to have been the burial places of the ancient Celts.  The peasantry can with difficulty be persuaded to open any of them, on account of a prevalent superstition that it will bring bad luck.  A little before we arrived at Drogheda, I saw a tower to the right, apparently a hundred feet in height, with a doorway at a great distance from the ground, and a summit somewhat dilapidated.  “That is one of the round towers of Ireland, concerning which there is so much discussion,” said my English-looking fellow-traveller.  These round towers, as the Dublin antiquarians tell me, were probably built by the early Christian missionaries from Italy, about the seventh century, and were used as places of retreat and defense against the pagans.

Not far from Drogheda, I saw at a distance a quiet-looking valley.  “That,” said the English-looking passenger, “is the valley of the Boyne, and in that spot was fought the famous battle of the Boyne.”  “Which the Irish are fighting about yet, in America,” added the South of Ireland man.  They pointed out near the spot, a cluster of trees on an eminence, where James beheld the defeat of his followers.  We crossed the Boyne, entered Drogheda, dismounted among a crowd of beggars, took our places in the most elegant railway wagon we had ever seen, and in an hour were set down in Dublin.

I will not weary you with a description of Dublin.  Scores of travellers have said that its public buildings are magnificent, and its rows of private houses, in many of the streets, are so many ranges of palaces.  Scores of travellers have said that if you pass out of these fine streets, into the ancient lanes of the city, you see mud-houses that scarcely afford a shelter, and are yet inhabited.

“Some of these,” said a Dublin acquaintance to me, “which are now roofless and no longer keep out the weather, yet show by their elaborate cornices and their elegant chimney-pieces, that the time has been, and that not very long since, when they were inhabited by the opulent class.”  He led me back of Dublin castle to show me the house in which Swift was born.  It stands in a narrow, dirty lane called Holy’s court, close to the well-built part of the town:  its windows are broken out, and its shutters falling to pieces, and the houses on each side are in the same condition, yet they are swarming with dirty and ragged inmates.

I have seen no loftier nor more spacious dwellings than those which overlook St. Stephen’s Green, a noble park, planted with trees, under which the showery sky and mild temperature maintain a verdure all the year, even in midwinter.  About Merrion square, another park, the houses have scarcely a less stately appearance, and one of these with a strong broad balcony, from which to address the people in the street, is inhabited by O’Connell.  The park of the University, in the midst of the city, is of great extent, and the beautiful public grounds