He was so deaf that he couldn't understand us, and he mumbled his words so that we couldn't understand him, except now and then a word, but he was so anxious to be of service, so eager to earn a tip, that he would repeat everything he said again and again, until we were able to comprehend it. With his crooked stick he pointed the way across the fields and we followed him. We wouldn't have got much information, however, had not Mr. Wilkinson, the first citizen of Tara, come to our rescue. He saw us as we passed his house, which stands a little way down the road, and, as he explained, "Having nothing better to do, and always enjoying an opportunity to meet Americans," he fortunately came over and joined our party and gave us intelligent and interesting explanations. He is a rugged old gentleman, is Mr. Wilkinson. Although more than eighty years of age, he "can do as big a day's work, six days in the week, and enjoy the Lord's day for rest as much as he did when he was only forty." His great-grandfathers as far back as he knows, like himself, were born in the cottage in which he lives, and "I've seen things come and go for many a day," he said. When Mr. Wilkinson had passed beyond hearing with the ladies, the old guide seized me by the arm, drew me anxiously to shelter and then in a whisper repeated several times until I was able to comprehend: "'E's the richest man in Tara and in all the country round about. 'E's worth three thousand pun if he's worth a penny, and he got it from his father before him. He's a good man, too, and I dunno what we'd do here without Mr. Wilkinson." They led us to the top of the hill, where we could stand beside the spot once occupied by the coronation stone and admire all Ireland, spread out like a cyclorama around us. It is one of the most beautiful landscapes in the universe. There are no mountains, except in the far distance; there are no rocks or other ungainly objects in view, but as serene and peaceful and fertile a tract of territory as can be found upon God's footstool. Ireland is the greenest country that ever was. The turf and the foliage have a brighter color and a richer luster than those of any other country. That, however, is not news. The fact was discovered centuries ago and has been disclosed by every son of old Erin who ever wrote poetry or prose. But nowhere is there such convincing proof that the Emerald Isle was appropriately named as is offered from the top of the Hill of Tara. You cannot transfer the testimony of the fields and the forests to paper, either with a pen or a brush, and certainly not with a typewriter. There are no words in the English language sufficient to convey to another mind what the eyes can see of this glorious landscape, and it is useless to multiply adjectives.