mor, in a house, or the confusion and breaking up of all that is comfortable and quiet at table in an Irish family. They are not first at table—first and best served—monopolizing all attention to their own pampered palates—selecting the most palatable food, &c, but seldom are they present with guests, and if so, their demeanor in most cases is an honor to the governess and mother who has disciplined them. We soon found ourselves on the borders of the celebrated Ponton Lakes; but who shall describe them? "Why," said one in Ballina, "among all the tourists who have visited Ireland, have none more particularly described these lakes, and the whole scenery?" For this plain reason, description must here fail. There is so much in such varied confusion and beauty, that nothing is particularly marked; the eye is lost in the view as a whole. Before the famine, I was whirled one cold day over the one-arched bridge by a surly coachman, who, in answer to my inquiries of the picturesque scenery, said, "That it was a divil of a starved rocky place, and he was glad when he saw the end on't." The lakes on this sunny day had the finest opportunity to set off their transparency; and for many miles they glistened, widening and narrowing, bordered by all manner of fantastic rocks and heath, till we reached the Ponton Bridge, which passes over a narrow neck, connecting the two lakes. These lakes are called Cullen and Coma. The current flows different ways in the course of the day, as Lough Cullen has no vent but to discharge its overflowing waters into the larger lake.
9*
