parts of Europe where we have travelled. Solid are the roadbeds, not troubled by frosts as ours are. Stone or iron are the bridges, and of the most durable kind, often with brick abutments and arches. Of course, at times, there are the bridges for common roads that pass over them. The substantial tunnels are sometimes miles long. There are well-made grass enbankments, nicely kept. The stations are quite good and cleanly, and there is invariably an exquisite neatness about the outside, where flower-patches and borders are carefully cultivated. The restaurants are poor and uninviting. Especially is this description true of England. Large and strong engines, on which is an absence of superfluous decorations of brass, or costly-to-keep-clean finish, are universal. The cars, as we say, but coaches as they term them, are of three classes, first, second, and third. The best of them are undesirable to Americans, but submitted to in the absence of those with which they are familiar.
Prices for travel vary. That of first-class is slightly more per mile than in ours. The second-class is something less, or, on an average, two thirds the cost of ours. Two cents per mile is the usual tariff. Perhaps one quarter of the people ride first-class, and the remainder are about equally divided between the second and third. The first-class are what we may describe as from four to six common mail-stages, built together as one, but wide enough for five persons on each seat. There is a door in the middle, opening on the platforms, and of course half of the passengers must ride backward. This is true also of the other classes, with slight exceptions in some of the cars of Switzerland; and even these, at their best, make an American homesick, and sigh for those of his native land. A light, or window, in the doors, and a small one at the end of each seat, is the universal rule. Second and third-class cars are nearly alike, save perhaps that there are cushions in the former, while there are none in the latter; though by no means does the purchase of a second-class ticket ensure cushions. The cars of these classes are straight-sided, like our freight cars, with side doors and small windows like those of the first-class. There are no fires, poor lights for night travel; no toilet saloons, nor any conveniences as in ours. Once in, the door is shut by an official, and usually locked till we land at the next station. In the cars of the first two classes the partitions extend from floor to roof, with seats against both sides; but in a few of the third-class there is simply a wide rail for resting the back, or a partition of the same height. When we saw any of these, though having it may be a second-class ticket, we would, to be as homelike as possible, avail ourselves of them. One does not object to second-class passage; and even the third is far from being as questionable as at first thought, to one unused to travelling, it might seem. It is generally the intensely aristocratic class, of the noli-me-tangere kind, who ride first-class—or Americans inexperienced in travel.
Officials are at all stations in abundance. They are ready cheerfully—but in their own way, to be sure—to give any information a traveller may require. In all parts of the Continent over which we journeyed, we had no special trouble in understanding them, or in making them understand us. So many English and Americans travel that the employees soon learn how to reply to the usual questions put to them. A little knowledge, however, of German and of French—as much as applies to common things, and as may with a little exertion be learned from most of the guide-books—helps the tourist amazingly. As regards the time made by these railroads, we rode on some of them faster than on ours at home, and are justified in saying that their promptness of arrival at stations is incredible. The roads with which we are conversant are in advance of ours in this respect. In but one instance did we find a train late; and waiting at junctions for other trains was apparently unknown. The conductors are expected to run their trains on time, and they do so unless prevented by accidents. We have been thus minute in stating the facts, as they are sure to be of interest to persons contemplating a journey.
And now we pursue our way, having left Cork at 3 o'clock p. m., towards Killarney and its famed lakes, which to us have all the charms of the best Castles in the Air; for who that has thought of the famous Lakes of Killarney has not fancied something good enough for a place in the neighborhood of Eden in its palmy days? Tickets in first-class cars cost us $2.25 each. After a ride of two hours we arrive at Mallow, and after three hours more, at Killarney. The first look of the town indicates a village well shaded with trees, and one is led to anticipate anything but the reality.
The houses are built in the usual Irish style—that is, they are of plastered and whitewashed stone, and the roofs are thatched. Generally they are not over one story in height, and a low story at that. They stand on crooked and narrow streets—or alleys, rather. There is an absence of cleanliness, and little to sustain distant impressions. One of the things that early attract the tourist's attention is the general poverty of many of the inhabitants, their lack of employment and visible means of support. Beggars are bold and used to their calling; and both they and the swarm of would-be guides are annoying if treated with common civility. There is an ancient look about buildings and people, and we get the suggestion that we see things as they were a century ago. Nothing is new and fresh but the foliage. Everything has the old odor of an ancient place.
The town has a population of 5,187, exclusive of 400 inmates of the almshouse—one to every thirteen of the population. Killarney is situated about a mile and a half from the nearest of the three lakes. There are two or three streets of some pretensions, on which are buildings three or four stories high, used as stores and hotels. Our hotel, the Innisfallen House, was kept, as all such small taverns are, by a woman. It was a thoroughly antiquated Irish institution, and for this reason we selected it. Experienced by long years of practice, our hostess was the man of the house, and had an eye to business that would do honor to the manager of the Vendome or the Brunswick at Boston.
There are few public buildings. The newish Roman Catholic Cathedral is a large structure of limestone, of good early English architecture, built from designs by Pugin. It is hardly in keeping with the town as it is, and only the eye of faith can see its harmony with the Killarney of the future.
Here may be related an incident illustrating a custom which is doubtless a relic of other days. After our visit to the cathedral, at about 7 p. m., we were surprised by the sight of a peculiar crowd of people coming up the street we had entered. It was a procession, numbering some hundred or more, carrying a coffin to the cathedral. The coffin was oaken, moulded at the top and bottom edges with black, and having three ornamental, black, iron plates—eight inches square, with rings in them—on each side. Black, round-headed nails ornamented the ends. The coffin was not covered, and rested on the shoulders of six men, three on each side. As by magic, three bearers would occasionally step out, and others take their places. Back of those who headed the procession were two rows of women, from fifty to seventy years old, with black dresses, and shawls over their heads. These were howling, two or more at a time keeping up the noise; and thus, without break or intermission, there was a continued wailing, in syllables of a slow but measured and distinct utterance, sounding like "Ar-ter-ow-ow-ow-er." This was repeated till the perfection of monotony was attained.
When near the cathedral the procession halted and the wailing ceased. The crowd numbered, it may be, a hundred. Arriving at the side door the coffin was carried in, and about twenty persons, probably the near relatives, entered. The remainder, including the Americans—who, now "being in Turkey, were doing as the Turkeys do,"—remained outside, and stood or knelt uncovered. In a few moments all was ended; the friends came out of the cathedral, the crowd dispersed, and "rag, tag, and bobtail" resumed their usual vocations, the dead man having been left in the building, with the approved and requisite number of candles "to light him to glory."
Turning into another street, another and similar crowd was encountered. This time the coffin was covered with black cloth, but decorated like the other, with mouldings, nails, and iron plates. In five minutes more came another. We were told the bodies were to remain in the cathedral till to-morrow, when mass could be held and they would be buried. This is a custom of the place each evening, and has been continued from time immemorial. It results from bad judgment as to what is a good use of the present, or what is a befitting preparation for the hereafter. It is a type of superstition gone to seed, and shows a love for sitting in "the region and shadow of death."
Now we ramble over the town, and through some of the well-kept and stone-walled roads. In spite of the condition of the most populous parts, there is