MISS MACNAB ON A BOTANICAL RAMBLE ON BEN LETTERY. I 99 
and its numerous leaves, bright green above, white and woolly 
below. 
But we had not yet reached our goal. The rocky head of Ben 
Lettery still towered high above us, boldly outlined against the clear 
summer sky, and, by a stiff scramble over stones, round huge 
boulders, and up flights of rocky steps, we reached the top. The 
view is a splendid one. We looked straight down upon the flat 
boggy country, lying between the Pins and the sea, and the broken 
fiord-like coast was spread out like a map before us. Little villages 
were dotted here and there, and from many a lonely cabin we could 
see the blue smoke rise from the peat-fires. To the west was the 
Atlantic with its indented coast-line and its horizon dim with mist, 
and white and solitary stood out the lighthouse at Slyne Head, one 
of the most westerly points in Ireland, and indeed in Europe. To 
the south was Galway Bay, with the shadowy outline of the Aran 
Isles, and, more faintly-pencilled still, the blue hills of Clare. The 
Aran Isles, three in number, lie like barriers across Galway Bay, and 
are of the deepest interest to archaeologists for their wealth of 
antiquities—pagan and Christian. The largest, Aranmore, has also 
a legendary and poetic interest, for old Irish writers tell how in clear 
weather might be descried from its cliffs the Hy Brysail, or Enchanted 
Island, the paradise of the pagan Irish, “ whose bowers beyond the 
shining wave at sunset oft are seen.” And Moore has described how 
as a youth he wandered dreaming along the shores of Aranmore— 
“ And when the western wave grew bright 
With daylight’s parting wing, 
I sought that Eden in its light 
Which dreaming poets sing,” 
As we looked down upon Galway Bay it was of the deepest blue, 
and the whole country is so spangled with lakes that there is more 
sparkling water than land to be seen. Hundreds of tiny lakelets fill 
up every hollow towards Clifden, glittering like mirrors in the sun¬ 
shine. Just below us were the four large lakes of Connemara, better 
known to the angler than to the general tourist, and the Castle 
of Ballynahinch, in its beautiful setting of lake and wood—its 
trees almost the only ones to be seen. Not far off are the quarries 
of green marble, for which Connemara is so justly famous. 
Growing upon the rocks at our feet were Lycopodiu 7 n alpiniim 
and Lycopodium Se/ago, and we found plenty of Armeria, while in 
sheltered crannies Saxifraga umbrosa^ London Pride, or to give it its 
Irish name, St. Patrick’s Cabbage, was clinging in close cushions to 
the bare rocks. 
Saxifraga umhrosa and Saxifraga geuffi, the two largest of the 
British Saxifrages, are peculiar to west and south-west Ireland, and, 
like Dabeocia and Erica Mediterranean are not to be found elsewhere 
