That old man wished to delude me up unknown steps to the battlements and up to other battlements on the top of the church tower--it was raining heavily, and the gray clouds lying on the house tops, you could hardly have seen across two streets--to see the view forsooth; then he volunteered to set the bells ringing in my honor, but I declined. He then told me of the bells--it was new to me; it may not be new to others. They were--well--taken without leave from Italy. The Italian who cast them pilgrimed over the world in search of them. Sailing up the Shannon he heard his long-lost bells, and it killed him, the joy did. The puritan soldiers destroyed the profusion of statues that decorated this church. Noticed one simple monument to one Dan Hayes, an honest man and a lover of his country. Near this cathedral is the house where Ireton died, tall and smoky, battered and fallen into age, but very high. Its broken windows showed several poverty-stricken faces looking down on the cathedral grounds, which, of course, are kept locked. King John's castle, very strong, very tall, very grim, seems mostly composed of three great towers, but there are really seven. Inside the walls is a barrack that could lodge 400 men. Limerick is full of old memorials of present magnificence and of past and present need. The inhabitants proudly tell you that it never was conquered, not considering capitulation conquest. The city raised the first monument to O'Connell. Of course I saw it, and thought it a good likeness. There is a square of grass and trees near it, where is a monument of Spring Rice, he who, when O'Connell was sick once, a political sickness, was said to be in despair: "Poor Spring Rice, with his phiz all gloom, Kept noiselessly creeping about the room; His innocent nose in anguish blowing, Murmuring forth, 'He's going, going.'" I did not hear the sweet bells that charmed the life out of the poor wandering Italian, still I think I have perhaps told enough about the ancient city of Limerick on the Shannon. From Limerick up through Clare, the railway passes along by the river Fergus, a big tributary of the Shannon. A Clare man informed me that Clare returned Dan O'Connell to Parliament. He sank his voice into an emphatic whisper to inform us that Dan was the first Catholic who ever got into Parliament. I have been taken for this one and that one since I came to Ireland, and have been amused or annoyed, as the case may be, but I am totally at a loss to know whom I resembled or was taken for in the County Clare. A decent-looking countrywoman shook hands with me, telling me she had seen me in some part of Clare a month ago, and I had never set foot into the county until to-day. "You remember me, my lady, I saw you when you stopped at ----" some whispered name with an O to it. The woman's face was strangely familiar, but I was on entirely new ground.