If there are sermons in stones I ought to have learned something from the ruins of the castle built by Sir Arthur Hill, the founder of the house of Downshire, in which they show the chamber occupied by William III. while his army was encamped at Blaris Moor.  This was once a royal fort, and among the most interesting memorials of the past are the primitive gates, long laid aside from duty, the timber gradually mouldering away from the huge nails, which once added to their massive strength.  Hillsborough was incorporated by Charles II., and sent two members to parliament.  The Hills rose rapidly in rank and influence.  In 1717, Trevor Hill, Esq., was created Viscount of Hillsborough and Baron Hill.  In 1756, Wills, the second viscount, was made Earl of Hillsborough, and in 1789 he became Marquis of Downshire.

Hillsborough is the most perfect picture of a feudal establishment that I know.  On one side of the little, quiet, tradeless town are the ruins of the old castle, with its park and its fine ancestral trees, through the thick foliage of which pierces the spire of the church, lofty and beautiful.  On the other side, and quite close to the town, is ’the new castle’—­an immense building of cut stone, in the Greek style, two storeys high, shut in by high walls from the view of the townsfolk.  Then there is the small market-square, with the court-house in the centre, the hotel at the top, and other buildings of a better class on the opposite side.  From the hill, which is crowned by these buildings, descend small streets, in which dwell the inhabitants, all more or less dependent on the lord of the manor, all cared for by him, and many of them pensioned when disabled by age or infirmity.

There is a monument erected to the memory of the late marquis’s father on a hill to the south of the town.  The view from this point is glorious.  Belfast lies a little beyond, enveloped in the smoke emitted from its numerous tall chimneys.  To the left is the range of the Antrim highlands, continued along the coast of the Lough towards Carrickfergus, and from which the Cave Hill stands out in bold relief, looking down on the numerous pretty villas with which the taste of wealthy manufacturers and merchants has adorned those pleasant suburbs.  Westward towards Lough Neagh, swelling gradually—­southward towards Armagh, and round to Newry, the whole surface of the country gently undulating, presents a vast picture of quiet beauty, fertility, and plenty that can be rivalled only in England.  The tall crowded stocks along the ridges of the corn-fields attested the abundance of the crops—­the rich greenness and warmth of the landscape showing how well the ground has been drained, manured, and cultivated.  The neat, white-walled houses gleaming amidst the verdure of sheltering trees and trimmed hedges tell the thoughtful observer that the people who dwell in this land belong to it, are rooted in it, and ply their industry under the happy feeling that, so far as their old landlords