Rath," and a long line of raised sward, whose
grass is ranker than the rest, tells how sanguinary
was justice in the ancient time. This rath
is now a favourite place from whence to view
the brilliant array of an army in review, or
engaging in sham fight. Few think of the gibbet
and the creaking chains, and the ghastly things
which once swayed and dandled overhead, or
of that line of graves.

As you descend from Newbridge, a station on
the Great Southern and Western Railway,
twenty-two miles from Dublin, at a sudden
sweep of the road, close by a neat Wesleyan
church built of corrugated iron, you see at
once the immense line of the camp far above
on the topmost ridge of that Long Hill I spoke
of. A tall clock-tower, whence every portion
of the Curragh can be seen, shoots up in the
centre. Close in front six pieces of cannon
guard the flag of England. On the right of the
tower is the Catholic chapel, on the left the
Protestant church, each capable of containing
eighteen hundred worshippers. Here are the
schools, marvels of neatness and efficiency.
Here also are the post-office, conducted with
true military precision and regularity, the
savings-bank, the telegraph station, and the
fire-engine depôt. If you could see through
the hill, you would discover on its further side
a considerable market where traders bring their
goods, and the country people their produce.
A busy stirring scene it is, and a gay one too,
when the trig, neatly dressed, and comely wives
of soldiers come forth to cheapen and purchase
what they can. How is it that soldiers,
married "with leave," can keep their wives and
little ones so trim on such scanty pay? They
are fair-haired, clean-skinned English girls,
most of them; and they present the very
picture of health and of content. But here
they buy all sorts of goods; nothing comes
amiss in the camp. Purchasers and "the
ready penny" are found for everything the
garden or the farm can produce; and hence the
peasantry, in the vicinity of the camp, are very
independent. But away from the clock-tower,
to the right and left, stretches the camp. The
"huts" look like a long brown wall seen from
the distance. In the foreground, as you look
up from the direction of the iron church, you
see, in general, few signs of life. The officers
and men are playing cricket yonder; a long
waggon is bringing slowly over the hill casks of
beer and porter to the camp; the sunlight
flashes from a line of bayonets in the hollow:
but from this spot you could not suppose that a
small army lay quiet behind that long brown
wall. Yet let the trumpet sound, at once,
before the last notes have died away, artillery,
cavalry, and infantry, are in their places, a
grand and spirit-stirring spectacle of armed men
ready to meet the enemy, and willing to march
on the instant wherever duty called them.

The whole camp then swarms like a
disturbed ant-hill, and the air seems alive with the
quick voices of command and the sharp clash of
arms.

"The camp" consists of ten spacious squares,
marked by the tirst ten letters of the alphabet.
Every square affords accommodation for a
complete regiment and its officers. A large covered
water-tank, a fountain, a regimental library,
mess-rooms, orderly-rooms, reception-rooms.
and guard-rooms are in each square. The
cavalry usually camp on the near side of the
Long Hill, in Donnelly's Hollow, so called from
the terrific combat which gave Donnelly the
pugilistic championship of Ireland half a
century ago. The men are usually placed
under canvas here, the horses in extensive
stabling recently erected. In summer and
autumn the long rows of white circular tents
rising from the green sward present a most
pleasing and interesting picture.

The abattoirs are at some distance from the
camp. The commissariat department, on the
extreme right of the Long Hill as you descend
from Newbridge. Near the iron church are
the constabulary barracks, a court-house, and
the magistrates' lodge, all constructed of wood,
but models of neatness and cleanliness,
surrounded with blooming gardens. The soldiers'
quarters in camp are confined, but clean and
airy. The married soldiers have not sufficient
accommodation, but in autumn and summer the
greater portion of the day is spent in the open
air.

For then all is energetic life. Here, strong
young horses are broken in; there, those
already trained go through their daily exercise.
Yonder dark blue squares are masses of artillery
in order of parade. The morning sun flashes
on their Armstrong guns. See how the horses
literally dance in time to the music of the band.
Yonder, are the lancers performing their most
graceful but deadly exercise; now, the little red
and white flags tipped with shimmering steel
form a long line in the air; now, they flutter
against an enemy in front; now, the fatal thrust
is given to a foe close beside the lancer's steed.
You can trace in the distance on the hills the
brilliant array of the dragoons, all a blaze of
dazzling brass. Should this be a field-day, the
generals and staff are out; the artillery thunders
in the hollows, the infantry maintain a rain of
rattling fire, regular and steady; the cavalry
urge their horses to the charge. A vast
cloud of white smoke, lit up with rapid flashes
from the cannon, rolls over the plain. When
the wind sweeps it away, cavalry, infantry,
artillery, all are gone; but you hear their
thunder in a distant hollow, or you see one
line of steeds and men sweeping, like a
wave, above the hills. Such is our every-day
life in summer. In winter comparatively few
troops are camped at the Curragh; the cavalry
are withdrawn to Newbridge or to Dublin, or
placed in barracks through the country.

But in summer and autumn, unless the season
be unnatural and unkind, the Curragh is
the most delightful place imaginable. The air,
scented with the odour of fresh grass and the
perfume of wild flowers, exhilarates and cheers.
"It acts like champagne on me," said an invalid