_The Gap of Dunloe_ is a wild ravine, a defile through the mountains (on the right are _the Reeks_, and on the left the _Tomies, Glena, and the Purple Mountain_), which, rising on either side, dark, stern, and sterile, with no great interval between, impart a solemn grandeur to the Pass. The river _Loe_ flows beneath the huge blocks of stone which have fallen from the rocks above--heard, but not seen, except in the small lakes which occur at intervals, and which, still and gloomy, add much to this impressive scene. One of these is called _the Serpent's Lake_, because St. Patrick, having caught the last snake in Ireland, put it into a big box (for reasons best known to himself), and flung it into this pool.
The most striking thing we saw as we went through _the Gap_ were some snow-white goats on the lofty summit of _the Purple Mountain_; for the latter really is of a distinct purple tint (not from heather, but from the colour of the stone); and the contrast in the sunlight was very beautiful.
Frank insisted upon seeing an eagle, and continually pointed to the precipices above, believing that he descried the king of birds. Miles did condescend to say that one of the objects to which Frank drew our attention was not so very unlike at a distance, but that the resemblance was lost as you approached the reality--a piece of rock not less than twenty feet high. At last we actually beheld a very large bird soaring towards us with considerable dignity. Frank was delighted; and when Miles uttered the dissyllable “raven,” I certainly thought he would have hit him. There are eagles in this neighbourhood beyond a doubt (though Frank surveyed it with an incredulous and sarcastic air); but they are not very likely to be much at home when bugles are playing and cannons roaring from morn to dewy eve.
Emerging from _the Gap_, we were “to save a mile, and see the best of the scenery,” and to effect this, we were taken over a country, which is, I dare say, a pleasant one for Mrs. Moriarty's goats, but to bipeds in boots (and one must be neat, you know, with so many pretty girls about), is by no means of an agreeable character. To derive consolation from the calamities of others is humiliating, but natural; “_il y a toujours quelque chose_,” says the French cynic, “_qui nous ne déplait point dans les malheurs d'autrui_;” and I found, I am ashamed to say, considerable refreshment in surveying the distress of a portly old gentleman, who, impinging a good deal on the craggiest parts, “larded the lean earth as he walked along,”