certainly he was, after all, a passionate pigeon of the Church, and very like a real Irishman. He was sometimes the best-humoured and softest-hearted fellow in the world; but vex him, and he would kick up such a row—set all about him fighting and breaking heads like a Tipperary faction on a fair-green. To account for all this, his historians tell us, that at one time he was attended by a guardian angel called Axal, and then he was in sweet mood, and he might be heard two miles away singing hymns and chanting mass amongst the mountains. At other times an evil genius, called Demal, used to infest him, inspire his mind with wicked thoughts, and still wickeder designs; and therefore, poor Columbkill, under the influence, no doubt, of this demon, was the cause of three bloody battles in Ireland; and in consequence of these pugnacious propensities, he was banished out of the country and sent to Iona, and was never permitted to look on Ireland again; and so strict was this religious penance enforced on him, that some years afterwards, when his presence was necessary to compose a feud which his earlier passions bad excited, he came over with an oiled cloth before his eyes, and the poor fellow was not permitted to cast

even a side look at the green hills he loved so

well.

I was shown, not far from this, the place of one of Columbkill's numerous feats, an old ruin near Garton, concerning which the tradition goes, that once upon a time there was an old magician who had built himself a tower in an island on this lake, of great strength and beauty, and in this tower he had a magic glass, which told him all that was passing through the world; and he had an altar made of an emerald, on which were elevated the idols of the sun and moon, which he adored. And here he lived, happy in his wisdom, and all the world feared him; but so it befell, that on a certain day he was overtaken by a sore distemper, and fell into a death-like trance without sense or motion, and then the Devil watching his opportunity, determined to take off the man he hated, what was nothing better than a dirty advantage, for, seizing him in his talons, he was hurrying away through the air, and they were going you may guess where; at this critical moment, Columbkill, who was out upon the hills, looking out for a well to bless for the people, happened to cast his eyes upwards, and saw Satan, like a kite with a

48

A MYSTIFICATION OF A DISTILLER.

lark in its claws, sailing under the sun with his prey in possession; and just as he was directly overhead, Columb made the sign of the cross in the air, and this perfectly astonished the Devil, it made him let go his gripe of the poor magician, as you, my dear, would let go your hold of a too hot potato, and so down he dropt at Columbkill's feet; and, to make my story short, he at once turned a convert, embraced Christianity, became a monk, built this church, and died a Catholic and confessor of the faith.

I confess, I am sometimes inclined to think those old stories are allegorically prophetical of what has come to pass in modern times. This old magician with his tower, seems evidently intended as a mystification of a potteen distiller, with his tower of smoke rising from one of these islands; and his magic glass evidently means the fiery liquor which can make a man see double; and then, it is so natural for the Devil to fly away with a distiller: therefore, the matter is quite clear, that the indomitable rage of the people of Tyrconnell for illicit distillation, is a verification of one of Columbkill's prophecies.

After leaving the valley in which Garton Lake is embosomed, we rose into a wide and wild moorland

ROCKING STONE.

49

district, covered with immense blocks of red granite; this district, composed of this granite formation, extends to the foot of Lough Salt, and blocks of any size, and pillars of any length, could be procured of granite, as compact in texture, as fine in colour, and capable of as perfect a polish as Pompey's pillar, and the sea at hand to carry away this beautiful material for ornamental architecture, to the Liffey or Thames. On the road to Lough Salt, some days after, as we passed an immense block of this red granite, my friend alighted, and putting his shoulder to the rock, it moved slowly to and fro. I was surprised, and alighting from my horse, moved it also with perfect ease,—a child might have done the same; but one hundred men could not have moved it out of its place. It was what is called a rocking-stone; whether it was consecrated to the rites of Druidical worship, or whether it was ever admitted into the superstitious observances of the people, I could not ascertain.

We proceeded to Glen Veagh, and at length reached it after a very deep descent. We were delighted with the beautiful water, winding far between immense mountains, and apparently without end, losing itself in gloom and solitariness amidst the

E

distant gorges and defiles of the hills. On the right hand side of the lake, the mountain rises like a steep wall out of the water, lofty and precipitous, for a thousand feet; and this cliff is the secure eyrie of the eagle and jer-falcon. On the other side the shore was lofty also, and mountainous; but still there was room for the oak and the birch, the rowan and alder, to strike their roots amidst the rocks, and clothe the ravines and hollows with ornamental copsewood. The lake was studded with wet woody islands, out of which rose perpendicular columns of smoke, which told full well, that in this solitary secluded spot, the illicit distiller was at his tempting and hazardous work. I have never been in Switzerland or Scotland; it has not been my lot, at leisure to wander along the waters of Westmoreland or Cumberland, but I have seen good drawings of these most frequented scenes; and have thus admired Lough Katrine, the subject of the poet's pen

* Since the above was written, the author has been often out of Ireland, and has visited most of the foreign scenes above alluded to. Ireland also is now much visited by tourists, and strangers are found roughing it through the west and south. Still he believes that Glen Veagh, though very beautiful, has been little visited. But Jack M.Swine is no more.