and dried in the good Christhens saw her thus a cripple and useless, and one full of faith took her off one morning from the minister's kitchen, where she was lying on a wad of straw, and mounting her on a pillion, he brought her here to Gougan Barry-why here she was not longer after going the rounds, than you would be in saying a pater, until all the good people's tricks were driven out of her, and by vartue of this blessed place she went back as straight as a rush, and danced when she came home as merry a jig in the parson's kitchen as ever was footed to bagpipe or fiddle."

As we left the Island of Gougan Barry, Cornelis showed me Father Mahony's grave --as usual with the graves of holy priests, the clay was taken away from it to be used in superstitious practices by the people. Cornelis either pretended or really felt disgust at the practice-he told how Father Mahony, before he died, had a sort of apprehension that his grave should be treated in this manner, and ordered it to be enclosed with

wooden railing and a strong oak door, and directed the key of the enclosure to be thrown into the lake. He showed me some of the wooden ornaments of the enclosure. I observed that it was a pity that the hills around were not planted-it would greatly add to the beauty of the place, "Planted, Sir, why it wanted no man's trees, it was all a wood once a squirrel could have hopped without touching ground, from oak to oak, and from birch to birch-from Inchigeela, all along here and up into the pass of Cooleagh, and so across the hills into Kerry, and until you get into Glen Flesk. The English in old times burned it down, to drive and hang, and kill the erathurs that sheltered in it-and as for this blessed spot here, the trees were all safe, and standing until not very long ago. I have heard my mother tell how on a patron here, the boys and calleens used to dance under and about the big oak trees--Oh! but it was the jewel of a place for making a wedding. A greedy man here, who called these trees his own, though the Saint, even

St. Finbarry himself, had surely the best right--he cut them all down, the bark was sent across the mountains to Nedeen, and sold to a tanner there-he put it into his tanpits-he steeped all his hides-better he had plunged them in bog water; not as much as would heeltap a brogue, of leather, did he ever make out of them, they all rotted and went to dung. The man lost his money and his character and all-little better could happen the chap that would turn to filthy lucre, the holy wood of Gougan Barry.”

I believe I have nearly, if not altogether tired my readers with Cornelis and Gougan Barry. I therefore, shall say no more about it, or its superstition. To the westward of the lake, I observed a very interesting little valley, into the recesses of which I could not deny myself the pleasure of penetrating; so desiring my guide, poor Cornelis, who was too asthmatic to venture to climb and scramble along, to rest himself—I set out to explore my way up a little stream, the head water of the river Lee. This lovely alpine vale

The

never did I see so sequestered a spot: except along the little stream by which I ascended, it was on every other side inaccessible, the mountains arose almost perpendicularly around. The Ethiopian valley, that Johnson, in all the richness of his language, describes as the abode of Rasselas, was scarcely more inapproachable on every side. little level vale lay before me, a lovely green meadow, a comfortable farm-house, with all its offices and homesteads, cows, and horses, scattered depasturing about—a flock of sheep grouped on a little green knoll--a heard of goats on the accessible parts of a ravine, that conveyed a tumbling torrent from the western side of the mountain. Eastwards. from about the centre of the precipice, as from the heart of the hill, flowed the fountain of the river Lee-it came welling, as if from the entrails of the mountain; and northward, on an inaccessible ledge, was an eagle's nest, and one of those lordly birds towering on poised wing in his "pride of place," chal,

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lenged with shrill and echoing voice, the honours of his sovereignty.

I sat down to rest me on a rock-beneath my feet the secluded vale-all around the embattled mountains-above the fleecy clouds that sent multitudinous shadows, as in ceaseless pursuit along their tides. I immediately set about to build a castle in the air-I made the valley and all the hills my own-I invested myself as the proprietor of yonder farmhouse, it was converted into a lovely and picturesque cottage, with trelliced entrance, and woodbined window-then all the sides of the hills I planted with larch, and the Lee was trained to pursue its tortuous course, fringed with willows, and alders, and poplars-then, why should I dwell alone-why not take to my repose, some who with attuned feelings, could respond when I might say, oh! this is peaceful, this is blessed, this is beautiful; and then I cast thought about as fast as Deucalion cast stones and created people. I built me a little Church, with just such a steeple