In its proximity to beautiful and romantic scenery, the Irish metropolis has an advantage over most of the great cities of the United Kingdom. The lounger in the Phoenix Park can rest his eye on the blue mountains of Wicklow, forming, as they do, a fine back-ground to Dublin, and distant from it only by a couple of hours' ride. But fully to enjoy the beauties and sublimities of Wicklow scenery, the county itself must, of course, be visited, and its features viewed in detail. Whether it be worth while to scale the Great Sugar-loaf mountain, and to climb to the summit of Bray-Head, or not, it will certainly more than repay the lover of natural scenery to look upon the mountain-rents and yawning fissures, the beetling precipices and the curious rocks, tossed into every form of VOL. V.-Second Series.-SEPTEMBER, 1859.

fantastic combination, with which these geological regions abound. Here, too, are such pleasant valleys as the Vale of Ovoca, whose clear waters and rich verdure yield us (if the national poet has not exaggerated)

"The purest of crystal and brightest of green."

Here, also, are picturesque glens and dells; such, for instance, as the Glen of Downs, the Devil's Glen, and, especially, Glendalough, with the antique ruins of its seven churches, and its weird legends of St. Kevin. Lough Tay and Lough Dan smile pleasantly amid the gloomy mountains in which they are embosomed. The waterfalls of Powerscourt and Pollaphuca, although mere bubbles on the monstrous lip of Niagara, yet each, with its accompaniment of jutting rock and spreading green-wood, presents a pleasant and, to some, an imposing sight.

The

The Dargle, which is situated about twelve miles from Dublin, and about two from Bray, is, perhaps, the most popular of the scenic beauties of Wicklow. It is a deep glen, about a mile in length, through which rushes, over a rocky bed, the river from which its name is taken. sides of this far-famed glen are two very steep hills, or rather mountains, richly clothed from base to apex with oaks, and a thick undergrowth of laurestihas and wild myrtles, interspersed with dog-rose, whilst the spreading tendrils of the sweet-brier and wild-woodbine lend their fragrance to the spot. About the middle of the dell, a moss-covered rock, known as "The Lover's Leap," (of which the legendary lore of the neighbourhood whispers strange tales,) uprears itself to a considerable altitude: From this rock the best view of this exquisitely sylvan scene may be obtained. Beneath him the spectator sees the torrent leaping headlong to its bed. Above him he views oaks, firs, larches; and a deeplytangled brushwood of evergreen; and beyond this deep verdure there lies by day,

and by night,

"A little patch of sky,”

"A little lot of stars."

The awful solitude of this lonely glen; the profound silence, broken only by the hoarse murmurs of the waters, half-hidden beneath the profuse foliage; the masses of verdure, relieved here and there by jutting crags and beetling cliffs; the precipitous hills, stretching far aloft on either hand, are well-fitted to inspire with awe a sensitive and impressible mind. It is solemn to reflect how many generations of men have passed away while the Dargle has remained unchanged in its distinctive features from age to age. The native Celt doubtless found it a safe retreat when the contentions of rival septs made his island-home a sad scene of interneciné strife. The invading Dane, when laying the foundations of Dublin, ran down, perhaps, to look upon the nobler architecture of this God-made glen. The fierce Anglo-Norman, in the days of Strongbow, might possibly have stumbled upon this picturesque solitude. The national bards, whose martial minstrelsy provoked the resentment of Edward III., (if tradition may be believed,) took refuge here from the vengeance of the

persecuting King. The rebel of 1798-half soldier, half bandit-took sanctuary from the victorious Saxon in the fastnesses of neighbouring mountains; but the vicinity of the Dargle itself was too well guarded by the loyal tenant-yeomanry of Lord Powerscourt. Wesley, in the midst of his abundant labours, found time to visit this favourite haunt; which "far exceeded his expectation." Having climbed from the depths of the Dargle to the summit of the enclosing hill, he pronounced the view to "exceed anything which he had seen in Great Britain." "And yet," he piously remarks, "the eye is not satisfied with seeing; it never can, till we see God." Here also, in this age of locomotion, may be seen the London tradesman, with his guide-book and sandwiches, escaped from the tumult of Cheapside; and the Manchester return-ticket tourist, exchanging for a month the noise of cotton-mills for the quiet of nature. During this long succession of dissimilar visiters, the Dargle has remained unaltered. Its verdure is as green to-day as when the Celtic chieftain glided through its thickets in his saffron-coloured shirt. The centuries that have passed have not added to the hoarseness of the stream that rolls amongst its rocks, nor changed the burden of its ceaseless brawl.

"I chatter, chatter, as I flow

To join the brimming river;

For men may come, and men may go,
But I flow on for ever!"

Close by the Dargle are the demesnes of Powerscourt and Tinnehinch. The latter derives its principal interest from its connexion with the late Henry Grattan, the great Irish orator and statesman. He received this estate by grant of the Irish Parliament, as a reward for the services which he rendered to his country. By him mainly was the legislative independence of Ireland effected, as well as the removal of those unjust and impolitic restrictions by which the trade and commerce of that impoverished country were all but entirely ruined. When, in subsequent years, he was twitted with the reception of this gift, he replied, with characteristic spirit and boldness: "I hold that grant by the same title by which the House of Brunswick holds the throne: the nation gave it, and I received it." Grattan was a great orator in an age of great orators. Whilst enraptured crowds hung upon the lips of his brilliant contemporary, Curran, in the Four Courts, the eloquence of Grattan rolled its terrible thunders in the Parliament of his native land. cultivated the talent with which he was so wondrously gifted. While resident in London, studying in the Temple, he had frequent opportunities of indulging his taste for public speaking, in listening, in the House of Commons, to his illustrious countryman, Edmund Burke, and to Pitt, the great Lord Chatham. How remarkable that his statue should occupy a proud position side by side with those of these great men, and of others, the most renowned in our Parliamentary annals, in the vestibule of the New Houses of Parliament! Whether he had a presentiment of this or not, he certainly frequently addressed, in strains of youthful eloquence, imagi

From early life he

nary senates in his own rooms, to the no small surprise of his astonished landlady. "What a sad thing," said she, "to hear the poor young gentleman talking all day to some one he calls Mr. Speaker, when there's no speaker in the house but himself!" It was during this period, while walking in Windsor Forest, and eloquently apostrophising an emp'y gibbet, a wag tapped him on the shoulder, with, "Pray, Sir, how did you get down?" "Indeed, Sir," replied Grattan, "you look as if you had an interest in asking the question." After the legislative union, Grattan sat in the United Parliament, where he debated, without appearing to disadvantage, with such able orators and statesmen as Pitt and Fox. Still, the higher achievements of his eloquence are associated with the memories of the Irish House of Commons. The Parliament of the United Kingdom has shown its appreciation of his genius by placing his monument amongst those of its brightest ornaments; and the Parliament of his native land bestowed upon him, during his life, the more substantial gift of Tinnehinch. The one may be seen by every visiter to the Houses of Parliament at Westminster: the other gives an additional interest to the romantic neighbourhood of the Dargle.

Alas! that Ireland, so prolific in genius, and so beautiful in many parts in its physical scenery, should present in its religious aspects so gloomy and melancholy a spectacle. Popery of the most virulent type infects large masses of its population, who, in consequence, are degraded and criminal. Whilst the Protestant minority are cleanly in their domestic habits, comfortable in their homes, intelligent and peaceful, producing generally the distinguished names for which Ireland is renowned, the majority, denied the Bible by their Priests, are characterized, in many instances, by squalor, ignorance, and crime. The grand remedy for this state of things is the blessed Gospel. Who, that has it in his power, is not willing to lend his aid in sending to the long-neglected peasantry of Ireland the truth that can make them free? And who, that has prevalence at the throne of grace, is not willing to pray that through the outpouring of the Holy Spirit the moral wastes of the sister island may excel the loveliest features of its natural scenery, that what is now a spiritual wilderness may " rejoice, and blossom as the rose?"

T. M'C.

THE TOUCH OF FAITH.
MARK V. 25-34.

"A certain woman, which had an issue of blood twelve years, and had suffered many things of many physicians, and had spent all that she had, and was nothing bettered, but rather grew worse, when she had heard of Jesus, came in the press behind, and touched His garment. For she said, If I may touch but His clothes, I shall be whole. And straightway the fountain of her blood was dried up: and she felt in her body that she was healed of that plague. And Jesus, immediately knowing in Himself that virtue had gone out of Him, turned Him about in the press, and said, Who touched My clothes? And His disciples said unto Him, Thou seest the multitude thronging Thee, and sayest Thou, Who touched Me? And He looked round about to

see her that had done this thing. But the woman fearing and trembling, knowing what was done in her, came and fell down before Him, and told Him all the truth. And He said unto her, Daughter, thy faith hath made thee whole; go in peace, and be whole of thy plague."

THIS woman stands forth in a striking and unique position. Other applicants to the Lord Jesus pray, entreat, beseech Him to have mercy. This woman's faith is of a more realizing nature: she recognises at once the great power of Christ to bestow health and cure; she believes so confidently in this Divine power that she declares that a touch will make her whole. There had been no neglect of ordinary means during her twelve years of wasting disease: she had spent all her living on physicians who had but aggravated her sufferings, and now she found herself nothing bettered, but rather worse.

Is there no lesson taught here to those afflicted by the more fatal malady of sin? They pray, they labour, they entreat the Lord to have mercy upon them, as if they were willing and He were unwilling. They attend to all the ordinances of religion, and yet they grow nothing better, but rather worse; the conscience becomes more awake, the yoke becomes more intolerable. Prayer, desire, effort, outward observances will not bring a cure, unless accompanied by a believing touch of the Divine Physician. It is not He who is unwilling to heal, it is not Christ who needs entreating to be reconciled. He stands at the door and knocks. He waits to be gracious. He stretches forth His life-giving hands all day long, to welcome sin-sick souls, to bestow upon them life and health. It is a touch that heals: a direct contact of the soul with living and now ascended Saviour, who has brought in an everlasting salvation: one such touch will bring healing and salvation.

This was a wonderful touch, a touch known to none but Christ and that woman; a touch different in its nature and results from that of any of those who thronged Him. He knew that virtue had gone out of Him: she knew that she was made whole. Jesus at once acknowledged the touch, and honoured the faith of the woman publicly. His question, "Who touched Me?" alarmed her: for not yet does she appear to know the full love of her Deliverer, as undoubtedly she knew His full power. But that the soul may be healed as well as the body, He turned to look upon her. The effect of that look was to bring her at once to His feet yet trembling and afraid; but her courage rises, and she "told Him all the truth." Told Him of her twelve weary years of endurance; told Him of the penury to which her physicians had reduced her; told Him of her belief in His healing power; and told Him how her naked faith had been crowned with success. But for the sweet words that fell from those lips full of truth and grace," Daughter, be of good comfort: thy faith hath made thee whole go in peace, and be whole of thy plague; "-how differently would she have returned home! thankful indeed for relief from bodily suffering, but knowing nothing of the love and tenderness of the human heart of the Divine Healer. One