The evening telegraph. [volume] (Philadelphia [Pa.]) 1864-1918, 1867-04-06

DIOpOILYs
eXulting in evidence of ton in every word and
movement. Even the eye-glassed, red, and
wiry-whiskered COCkney could be seen and
heard, possibly attracted there by the reputa-
ton of the ''Hirish girls for fine hiyes and
hintellects," or probably from a peculiar
horror, for private reasons, of other watering
places nearer home, where landlords were
less generous and accommodating being more
experienced. These, and such as these, with
a few who came to see rather than to be seen
made up the guests at Brady's.
After dinner joined party of the class last
mentioned dwhopurposedd ddevohng the rest of the
afternoon to an excursion upon the mountain
ascending as high at least as would enable
then to enjoy scene pronounced by travel
| lers to be one of the finest in land praised
alike in song and story for its scenic beauty.
The unmingled enjoyment of that ascent-for
the labor of the journey was a pleasure too
is one of the most pleasant of the many happy
memories which owe to the elsie of Tears. I"
The landscape which unrolled itself like a
scroll when we assembled was of remarkable
beauty. 'Rich with all the gorgeous colorng
oil the season was spread out, as far as the eye
could reach, the unshorn wealth of cornfeld
and of meadow. Here and there a clump of
beech or chestnut sheltered half hidden among
the foliage, the snow-white walls of a farm
house.
Lilliputian figures crept stealthly along
through lane and over pasture, more like the
tiny figures in a Flemish painting than men
and cattle at their labor. The rock-bound bay
was alive with its freight of toy-like fishing
boats, whose white sails borrowed the golden
hues Of evening as the sun stole down towards
the heathery forehead of Sieve Donard. The
whole scene, embraced from an altitude
OF fourteen hundred feet, is again before me,
and revel for a moment, whilst the illusion
lasts, in the unspeakable emotion which was
born of it.
But as l set out to tell story whose theatre
is not the mountain, but the valley under
meath, must e'en come down again to supper
and to prose, leaving, however reluctantly,
Sieve Donard and its poetry behind me.
Leaving Newcastle with that regret which
all must feel who leave it at such season, l
started next morning after breakfast for Cas-
tlewellan, where intend taking the coach for
Newry, having ordered my luggage to be for
warded there from my hotel at the Point.
Castlewellan is but four miles distant and
the journey thither was said to be one of the
most enjoyable walks in this romantic region.
The road for the entire distance is one un-
interrupted ascent towards the summit of one
of the lesser hills ON which the village stands,
ailording from every pOint-unless when now
and then jutting mountain crag overhangs
the path and for a moment intercepts the
vision--a view of the broad expanse of sea-
the valley widening as you rise-each footstep
of the ascent adding some new beauty of form
and color, light and shadow, to the scene.
Half way upon my journey l sat down to
rest for minute or two by the road side, and
lighted a cigar. Under its soothing influence
and that of the scene beneath me, dropped
into one of those blissful reveries
in which we sometimes forget our earthli-
ness for awhile, our souls absorbed in ecstatic
contemplation Of the wondrous beauty, yet
! still more wondrous mystery, of the Creators
! handiwork.
had been thus but short time indeed
when the sound approaching footsteps broke
in upon my thought followed by the
customary salutation, "God save you, sir,
tits heavenly morning that we have.'
Replying in the country phraseology, "GOd
save you kindly" | raised my eyes to see the
passing figure of a stopped old man, with a
spade upon his shoulder, wing slowly
onward meath his weight of years,
and in my direction. Always fond
of companion, when wander
ing in this way, being usually for
tunate enough to meet with those to whom
the scenes around me were familiar, and from
whom l often learned much indeed that was
new and interesting, l arose to resume my
walk. Strongly impressed by the venerable
form of the old peasant, as deemed him, and
thus attracted, l joined him, making some
casual remarks about the appearance of the
country, which easily opened the way to con-
versation. Enough of years have passed since
that autumn morning to have worn out the
then feeble thread of the old mans life, but
palpable to my memory as the recollections OF
my wedding-da is every lineament of that
I expressive face. l hear again, as | write, the
gentle music of his voice, his white hairs float
before me stirred by the morning mountain
breeze and greet again his expressive salu-
tation, felt again if again unspoken, "God save
you kindly"
TO all my inquiries touching the country
round about and the harvest, then all but
gathered from the fields, he replied in that
simple yet lucid manner common to the most
uneducated Irish peasant when he speaks Of
things familiar to him, chastened in his every
remark by expressions of his gratitude tC
God for bounties received, and of his reliance
upon His wisdom and goodness in atfliction.
His calling, he told me, was a sad one. He
too was a labOrer in the field, but the harvest
he gathered was moist with the tears of many
Death himself was the reaper. He was the
village sexton.
had often before met men of his mean
choly occupation, but the hearts of these
seemed to have been hardened by the very
nature of their handicralt, as they became
familiarized with that sorrow bitterest Il
human nature-the parting for ever in thi
world with the truest and best beloved; but il
the good old man beside me the keenest sym
pathy for his suffering fellew-mortals seemed
to have found meet and fitting resting place
| learned from him that few rod
further on my way stood the chape
and burying ground of Drumbhan, wher
for some fifty years back he had
made the last dwelling places of his friends