We travelled now upon a large outside car, which allowed us to see every thing on our way, and would have been a very pleasant conveyance if it had not left us too much exposed to the attacks of the beggars. The seats were so low that when the car was going slowly up the hills, we could step off and walk--so, of course, the beggars could come close beside us. Nothing kept them off--neither laughing, nor commanding; alms-giving, nor refusals. Drive as fast as we might, they kept up with us--crowds of little boys and girls, and sometimes full-grown men and women. Some of the children were exceedingly handsome, with black hair and eyes, and dark olive skins--descendants, it is said, of the Spaniards, who, in the time of Queen Elizabeth, invaded Ireland. The Lakes of Killarney would scarcely be called _lakes_ in our country, where we boast such grand inland seas under that name. They are small, but certainly very beautiful, and surrounded by delightful scenery. They are three in number--the Upper, the Lower, and Torc Lake. The town of Killarney has a miserable, dilapidated appearance, and is overflowing with beggars. We did not stop here, however, but at a hotel a mile or two away, on the northern shore of the Lower Lake--a most charming situation. A little way out of the town, we had stopped to visit Torc waterfall--a beautiful cascade, in a wild and shady glen--one of the very finest sights of that region. In the morning, we set out early on an excursion through the Gap of Dunloe, to the Upper Lake. This time I was mounted on a fleet-footed pony, which gave me an advantage over the beggars. One friend rode beside me; the others were, as usual, on a jaunting car. The "Gap" is a long, dark, rocky pass, with a noisy stream, called the Loe, rushing through it. On the right, are the mountains called the Reeks; on the left, the Toomies, and the "Purple Mountain." On reaching the Upper Lake, we left our ponies and car, and embarked in a boat, which was awaiting us, for a row down a still, silvery, and fairy-like sheet of water. Passing many green and flowery islands--always in sight of grand mountains and lovely shores--we entered upon "the long range"--a sort of river, connecting the lakes. On this stands old "Eagle's Nest," a mountain about eleven hundred feet in height, on whose summit the eagles have built their nests for centuries. It is principally remarkable for the fine echoes which it gives forth. Our guide played the bugle before it, and every note came back, clear and sweet. Mrs. Hall, in her beautiful book on Ireland, relates an amusing story which a peasant told her, of a daring attempt a mountaineer once made to rob the eagle's nest. He watched till he saw the old eagles fly away, and then let himself down by a rope from the rock above, and was just about to seize upon the young eaglets, when suddenly out darts the mother eagle from a thunder-cloud, and stood facing him! But she spoke very civilly, and said--