down, sharp and clean as a knife. Here, on this vantage ground, raised 818 feet above the level of the ocean, he may rest awhile to contemplate the scene before him.

The geologist will strive to determine, according to the conditions of his theory, whether the family of rocks scattered here amidst the waves of the Atlantic are the fragments of a mountain torn by the war of elements, or have risen from the ocean, destined to serve as the foundation on which a new mountain shall in time be built. An instructive lesson, surely, and of a noble science, may thus be gained. But a yet nobler lesson is suggested by the scene. The mountain solitudes, the awful cliffs round whose base the waves rage and roar for ever, the vast limitless ocean stretching far into the horizon, and beyond it the sky stretching farther still, until it is lost in the unimaginable depths of space,― all kindle in the soul the feeling of the infinite; and the little thing man is, is, in the comparison, annihilated by the sense of the majesty and the power whose presence is here recognized. Salutary lesson of greatness and of nothingness! The man must have an ill constituted mind, who can stand here to contemplate the scene around him, and not feel his soul glow with emotion. The least thoughtful will think of Him who "compassed the sea with its bounds,

and set a law to the waters that they should not pass their limits."

An incident related to the writer, in view of the spot, lends a melancholy interest to the Tormore. One morning, not many years ago, a boy, who had been in the habit of visiting this cliff from time to time in quest of the nests of the birds of this wild region, came here to ply his dangerous trade. In very calm weather, one well acquainted with the intricacies of the coast can make his way at low water from this island-rock to the mainland. This day, however, a storm rose suddenly, which the boy, engaged in his exciting occupation, did not perceive in time, so when he came to cross to the shore he found himself encircled by breakers. The storm lasted for more than a week, and during the whole of that time the waves continued to beat round the rock with unabated fury, rendering all approach to it, or departure from it, certain destruction. The boy died of cold and hunger on that desolate crag, which, however, furnished clay enough to cover his remains, and he was buried on a narrow ledge high up the precipitous side of the rock.

Peaceful be thy slumbers, poor boy! Thy trade was a dangerous one, and thou hast paid for thy hardihood a dear reckoning. The winds and the waves, making common cause with the sea fowl,

conspired to crush thee, and thou wast in truth a feeble reed in the midst of their warring circle. Still thou hadst that in thee which made thee greater than they; thou hadst knowledge of thy end, they were unconscious of their power. Thou wast immeasurably less than they in the part of thee that was of earth, but infinitely greater in the part of thee that is immortal. Even now thou hast thy triumph. The awful accompaniments that made thy death so terrible still surround thy tomb. The waves and the winds make ceaseless moan around thee, and the screams of the wild sea-bird mingle with the sad dirge that goes on for ever. And for thy resting place thou hast found a monument greater than column or pyramid ever raised to hold the bones of earthly potentate.

If the visitor be a poet, the history of this poor boy is a fit theme for an effort. The rock itself is already admirably characterized in Keats's noble address

"Hearken, thou craggy ocean pyramid!

Give answer from thy voice, the sea-fowl's screams!
When were thy shoulders mantled in huge streams ?

When, from the sun, was thy broad forehead hid

How long is 't since thy mighty power bid

Thee heave to airy sleep from fathom dreams?
Sleep in the lap of thunder or sun-beams,

Or when gray clouds are thy cover-lid?
Thou answer'st not, for thou art dead asleep!

Thy life is but two dead eternities

The last in air, the former in the deep;

First with the whales, last with the eagle-skies-
Drown'd wast thou till one earthquake made thee steep,
Another cannot wake thy giant size."

A curious story is told, and universally believed in Glen, to the effect that it had been for some time. the last hiding place of the Pretender, ere he was able to make his way from the shores of these kingdoms. The Rev. Mr Griffiths, the late incumbent of Glencolumbkille, has ably discussed this tradition in a paper published some years since in the Dublin University Magazine, which they who take an interest in the details of English history should read. It would be worth the historian's while to examine the grounds of this interesting belief. According to the tradition, the Prince used to spend the greater part of the day stretched on this headland, looking out for the ship which was to convey him to another country.

The tourist should continue his route close to the coast, which retains its precipitous character throughout; and, as it is serrated, he will gain various and exciting views of these marvellous steeps along his path to Puliska, where an indentation forms a basin of calm water amidst surroundings the most savage it is possible to conceive. Looking out from any of those airy headlands on the vast expanse of ocean,

one gets the idea of its immensity, its beauty of line and colour and others of its attributes. Still, from your high position the sea below seems calm, the swells look shadows passing over the waters, and the surges like the breaking of the ripples on a quiet lake. But if you could get into a boat, and move a stone's throw from the shore, the water completely loses this gentle character.

Among the most profound and the most vividly remembered emotions produced in the mind of the writer by anything he has seen in nature, were those he received while passing under the cliffs of Slieveatooey, at the entrance into Puliska. The starting point was Dowros, some eight miles to the northeast. The weather had been beautiful for weeks before, and that morning was so fine that there was hardly wind enough to fill our sail. The sea was, as the phrase goes, at rest. Once fairly out in the deep, the element that had appeared to us from the shore to lie in calm and peaceful slumber, gave no token of a fixed law or a regular succession of incidents. Now it is nothing but a broken surface of wave-crests in wild disorder. Sitting here on a level equal with the waves themselves, you realize the restlessness, the fitful change, the unfathomable depth, the irresistible might, the unsubdued power of the ocean. Our little boat moves lazily across the sound,