rocks, and the people were busy, not in saving either crew or vessel, but in getting on board the wreck, and plundering and tearing up every thing to pieces; the best and only thing that can be said for them was, they did not commit murder. She was laden with the rich produce of the African coast - gold, ivory, gums, ostrich feathers, &c. &c. The crew next morning were put on shore at Baltimore-they made the best of their way to Cork-they complained to the authorities, and a Commissioner of Excise, with some soldiers, were sent to the wreck; but all the property was plundered, shattered hull remained.

nothing but the

But what became

Little good, in

of the enriched people? troth, says John Bennett, gold dust was easily secured, bags were buried, and their fortunes made; as for the ivory, the Guager might take that, it was of no use to them but the women wear the foreign feathers to this day, and many a year after, girls of the Mahony's of Castle-island were known at a patron or fair by an ostrich feather stuck to

;

the side of their caps. But what good did all the gold do the Mahonys? Arra, they were worse off than their neighbonrs-what came over the devil's back went under his belly-they sold the gold to pedlars and shopkeepers, in Baltimore and Skibberreen, they bought tobacco by the roll, and whiskey by the hogshead, they brought a piper from Bantry, and a fidler from Clonakilty, they lived as well as a Priest at station, every day from Saturday to Thursday, eating bacon, swilling whiskey, dancing, and running lewdly to the devil, until at last, the fever came amongst them: they died like sheep of the red water. Oh it was a bad day for the Mahonys that the Neger's gold came amongst them-the church-yard has them all now except an old man, who has no son to carry him to the grave; what good did the Neger's gold do him, the lone beggarman?

Now as we approached Cape Clear island, the wind began to rise from the north-east, a sharp curl rose upon the sea, which one of the young men said was called in Irish the

rootings of the pig. As we neared the island, we observed a little harbour partly defended from the south-west wind, by high and caverned cliffs; to the right lay a castle called Dunamore, or the Golden Fort, a most picturesque object, built on a rock beneath a beetling precipice. Half of this structure lay in large masses of ruin, round which the sea rushed, growling as in triumph over its fallen honours; the remnant still stood, dark and shattered, the ready victim of some future. storm. Just as we sailed under the cliffs, and turned our helm into the snug cove, was an old church, clothed with ivy, lichens, and wall-pepper, and the first sight that met my eyes in landing directly under the churchyard, was a human skull, that lay tossing about, as idle as an egg-shell. It has often struck me, what little consideration the Irish have for human bones-these memorials of ⚫ their own mortality-they seem to pay no regard to the relics of their once loved friends, when committed to the grave. I particularly remarked this, all through the

county Cork, and nothing to me could be more revolting, than to see in all their burying grounds and abbeys, human bones heaped together in immense stacks, or tossed about mouldering, crumbling, and decomposing, covered with nettles, hemlock, and rank weeds. I observed to one of our rowers, that there was a large skull. O! Sir, it is nothing to the skull and bones of Cornelis O'Driscol, whose thigh bones they keep for the people to kiss on the chapel altar. And who was Cornelis O'Driscol? Oh the biggest man that ever was born, but the best natured fellow that ever supped milk. He could beat a whole faction at a fair, and he could drive a ball with his hurl as high as Mount Gabriel, but he never kilt a man that he was not sorry for it, and his heart was as tender as a sucking chicken, and then he was so huge and strong. One night, God rest his soul, he was lying along the fire-side, and his old father was sitting under the hob on the other side. The wind was strong from the south-west, there was a spring-tide, and

it raining so, that you would think every cabin in Cape Clear would be washed away. Cornelis, says the old father, did you moor the launch well to the rock-my life to a hap'worth of tabeccy you did not, you needle legg'd red shank; get up you spalpeen, and go moor her tight, or the tide will toss her away, and what will we do catch the hake and herrings for the wife and childer next Summer. Up, without saying a word, got Cornelis, and out he went; it was well he was strong and long, for there was so high a wind, and a stream running so strong from the rocks, that it would have driven or washed ano ther man into the sea; but down went Cornelis, breasting the wind like a sea-gull; he caught up his father's launch, just as readily as I lift this spar, and clapping it under his left arm, he brought it up clear and clean, and laid it in the cabbage garden, behind the cabin ; and so my dear soul, when the neighbours went out in the morning, they found the launch, which would have taken four good men to row out to sea, carried like a potato