brated in the country without the presence of Denis. He had always the most comfortable corner allotted to him, and his seat at the banquet was next to that of the master of the house himself. Though always beloved by the peasantry, since his late misfortunes he was almost idolised. No people in the world entertain a deeper feeling of veneration for virtue in distress than the Irish. Abandonment of friends in adversity is not their fault, and their fidelity to the victim is more strong as his miseries increase; and, as the swan is said to soothe the moments of dissolution by a strain of exquisite melody, they especially comfort the sorrows of the death bed, and soften the rigours of desolation.

He had been blessed with a large and fine family of four sons and two daughters. The elder girl caught cold by chance, and contracted a consumption which soon carried her to her grave, and the younger shortly followed. The poor mother, thus deprived of the chief part of domestic joy, pined in a natural decay, which was perhaps hastened by the departure of her eldest son, a fine young man, for America. Two more enlisted in a marching regiment preparing to set out for the West Indies, where they shortly after fell victims to the yellow fever. All dropped one by one-all his delight went out with the quick evanescence of the tints of the rainbow, and he was left desolate.

One delicate boy remained who was his mother's darling. He had been only three or four years old when she died, and owing to that want of care which the mother alone can so well supply, his constitution was weak, and his frame was one of debility. Many circumstances beside that of parental love served to increase the father's affection for Randal, and to bind up his very soul in his. He was the image of his deceased mother, and she had eloped with her husband, and preferred the risque of poverty with her more admired suitor to certain wealth with one whom she disliked. His state of health also claimed those little indulgences only understood and given by the parent, and his look of thanks to his poor father was so like that of his mother, when, at the age of sixteen she left her father's home, and gave herself up the protection of Denis, who swore that whilst health and strength remained she should never want comfort, that he almost forgot the recollection of his misfortunes. He had doted on his wife, and, even still, the bare mention of her name would wring a tear from his dimned eyes. Randal had become the idol of the country people, and it was delightful to witness the contention amongst them, who should be first to pay the closest attention to the sickly boy. He always accompanied his father to those places where he was invited, and it was the pride of the old man's heart to make an exhibition of his son's wonderful talents. All sorrow was drowned in the possession of this treasure; the bare wrinkled brows opened, and the dark eye once more sparkled at the applause bestowed on his darling. He never left him for one moment, and he seemed the only tye which bound him to the world, and the sole charm which reconciled him to life.

One autumn evening, they had been invited to spend the night at a wedding nearly a mile and a half distant from their own little cabin; and the father and son were decked out in their best clothes. As they were just departing Randal fell outside the threshold of the door, and cut his forehead severely. Sheela, their old house-keeper, told them in great alarm that it would be unlucky if either stirred out that evening. Though by profession, Denis was a believer in the doctrine of predestination, yet, at

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the same time, several most pressing inducements influenced him to disregard the monitions of the auguring sybil. The priest was expected to be present; of course there would be a ball, and such an opportunity of exhibiting the powers of Randal should not be omitted. They were exceedingly perplexed as to the way in which they should act, and were almost inclined to give up the idea of leaving the house that night. At length the matter was determined by a plan which their prophetess proposed. She, knowing that the fate destined for two persons together would never fall on the head one alone, assured them, that either may be permitted to depart without harm. Denis was always ready to postpone his own pleasure to that of his son,-as what parent is not?-and immediately signified his resolution to stay at home, and directed Randal to set out. The manners of the young boy were extremely bashful, and he by no means wished to go unaccompanied by his father. However, seeing the anxiety of the poor man to have his desire complied with, he could not hesitate in obeying him. He went therefore, and at parting from his father his face assumed a more than usual melancholy cast, which raised many unhappy presentiments in the mind of old Sheela. She did not like the ashy paleness succeeded by the high heetic, nor the glistening eye;-it resembled too closely the last light of the dying wiek. Nothing material happened to him on his journey, he arrived safe at the farmer's house, and the young bride came out to meet her favourite, and to conduct him to the most comfortable part of the room. A stranger would suppose that Randal had been the bridegroom, from the close attention paid to him by the young woman. Whether for the purpose of concealing her own bashfulness, or that, noticing a change for the worse in the young minstrel's look, she never left him during the entire night. The dinner was now discussed in silence, for the priest was present, and of course was carver. The punch went merrily around, the songs of Carolan were chaunted by strong manly voices, the beautiful "placa na Ruare" was sung by one of the company, a fine dark looking man, in compliment to the present banquet, and, when all hearts were warm, and the generous and genuinely brave spirits of the open hearted and unsuspecting Irish were roused, the dance was loudly called for. Instantly, young men and maidens were on their legs. Chairs, tables, and all other impediments were removed to make room for the sweeping contre-dance. The old men removed to another apartment with the Rev. Mr. Donegan to discuss some political questions over their beverage and left the young ones to the free exercise of their favourite pastime. Six fiddlers struck up, and when the preliminary process of grinding rosin, and tying strings was over, burst into "dho nogais mo fein" with all the action and gesture of vehemence. They sat in a row together, and it often happened that they bumped each others elbows, and thumped each other's corns in the violence of exertion. Heads were bobbing fiercely-now here; now there,―in all the pride of excellence. The winks and nods of the ungentle minstrels were always followed by a fillip of the middle finger and thumb, and a short but shrill yell of exultation from the dancers. They were just in all their glory, and had run

Note by MR. PRIMUS JUCUNDUS MAC RINCO.-This practice is what I never approve of, and never allow in my school; and I think it is the duty of every professor to admonish his pupils against the noisy vulgarity of such a custom. At the same time let him not suppose that I suggest this, by way of imitating any more exalted official.

Choc-na veach School,

down one set,-when an agonising shriek was suddenly heard from a corner of the room. At once, all was hushed, and the bride leaving her partner hastened to know the cause of the interruption. She ran to the chair on which Randal had been sitting, and under it he was found in a hysterical fit. His legs had got entangled in the frame; and the back of his head had descended with violence on the hearth, and was bleeding rapidly. All ceased from their amusement, and some were going to alarm the priest, when the young woman beckoned them to desist. She laid him on her own bed, and moistened his throbbing temples with vinegar. He soon recovered, but was in so weakly a state that he was removed to another bed in the kitchen. The music and dancing ceased through fear of disturbing the poor boy, and he slept the entire night.

In the morning he was sent home to his father on a horse. Denis took him down in his arms, and carried him to his bed, and bent over him in all the expressive silence of agony. Poor Sheela shook her head as she rubbed his pale face gently with her trembling hand. Randal was speechless during that entire day-and alas! the forebodings of his nurse were too well realised, for, about four o'clock next morning he expired.

It would be impossible to describe the feelings of the father; any person must fully conceive them from the desolation of his state before. He preserved an unbroken sulleness during the wake;-no tear was shed; probably because the sources were dried up and exhausted already. He moped about the house as if in search of something he had lost. He uttered not a word, but sat down regularly to his meals, only now and then he seemed as if talking to some one next him,-it was there always Randal used to sit. He was continually taking up the little dog, placing him on his knees, bending over him, and lulling him to sleep with a kind of murmuring caoin. He went about the road, clapping his hands, but uttering not a single expression, and with a stupid wildness of countenance searching under every hedge, in every nook, and examining every cabin for his boy. The neighbours endeavoured to make him speak, or to move him to tears by continually talking of his son, and uttering his praises, but all was done in vain, nothing could thaw that frozen grief which bound up the springs of his soul.

This could not last long;-at the moment when the corpse was about to be placed in the coffin, and carried out for interment, nature burst forth and moistened the barren wilderness of insensibility. He was torn from the coffin, and, in spite of his shouts of agony, was prevented from attending the funeral. Six or seven old men, and two or three old women, remained with him for a few days, to prevent his missing the company of his son. At the end of a week he was so far recovered as to be removed to the house of the young woman, where Randal had last been. By degrees, reason assumed her faculties, and hysterical grief, and stupefaction gave way to that mellow remembrance, which in some measure soothes us for the loss we have sustained.

It was now near two years since the death of Randal, and during that time, I am sure not one moment passed without bringing him to the memory of his father. He frequently wanders back to his old habitation by moonlight, in the hope of meeting with his ghost; and I have been informed that he spent three nights in the burying place, in the expectation of beholding his son's apparation. In this manner he strays about the country; at one time in a most depressed state of mind, at another,

comforted with the hope of speedily joining his beloved. He never passes a grave yard or chapel without offering up a prayer for the repose of his soul. It was this circumstance led him to the place where I last met him.

Not wishing to interrupt his devotions, I waited in anxiety until he arose from a kneeling posture. Having expressed my uneasiness lest I may have unintentionally intruded on his private hours, he shook his head. mournfully, and answered "no, sir, you have not interrupted me; I was merely beseeching God to grant me one favour, either to bless me with a sight of my poor boy, or else to take me entirely to himself. My poor Randal is far happier than if he had been still contending with this wicked world;―at the same time, that I fear I am somewhat selfish in feeling sorrow for him. Do you know I have sometimes been impious enough to arraign the justice of God for rendering me, of all people, so deplorably desolate;-my wife-my daughters."-The poor man was getting into such a melancholy strain of feeling, that I thought better to divert his mind from the subject entirely, and after offering a remark on the stillness of the evening, I enquired whether any traces of the monastery were as yet extant. "Not the least," replied he, "but the ground we are now standing on is not the site of the old abbey;-you see there," pointing with his stick, "where that high green field rises to the west outside the burying place, there the dwelling house was built. It was formerly, and by some is still called 'ard na mbrahair,' or the 'hill of the brothers.' There is not a single ruin left, all has been overturned, and the ground ploughed up by strangers who had no taste for any thing ancient or holy." I asked if the graves of any of the friars could be ascertained. "From the immense quantity of graves," said he, "in this place, it is impossible to discover those of which you speak, however, there are two or three which I am pretty sure of, as belonging to the outcasts of the friary,-and one in particular, which I never pass without praying for the soul of him who lies beneath; I have reason to be quite certain, as my father knew him well: if you will come this way, I will shew you where he lies." I followed my guide into the centre of the burying place, and after pushing aside heaps of nettles and wild briars, we at length discovered a grave almost level with the ground, ornamented with a short thick grey headstone, on which the deeply indented letters were almost illegible; a small cross, cut out of a solid piece of stone, was standing at the foot, on the upper part of which, was engraved a rude circle of glory, resembling that surrounding a soborium, in the centre of which, was traced a well formed 'I. H. S.' This completed the decorations of the poor friar's grave. It was situated in the thickest shade; two old alder trees covered it entirely over, and, as if to shut out all light, and to baffle scrutinising curiosity, weeds and briars were intertwined across it. No person ignorant of its existence, could ever have discovered it, so deeply was it buried in complete twilight. "The history of this brother is extremely curious," said Denis, "both for the unfortunate events of his life, brought on partly by himself, and for the rigour of his subsequent repentance. If you should have any desire to know it, I shall be happy to gratify you, as my father often told it to us." I thanked him for his offer; and perceiving that the grief of the father was for the moment nearly obliterated in the ardour of the senachie, I was glad to be the medium of affording some alleviation, however brief. His elbow being supported by the corner of the headstone, and mine leaning on the stone cross, he began his narrative. Denis could speak English well, and

with fluency, but having himself heard the tale in Irish, and knowing the difficulty of giving expression in English to the energy of the language of Ossian, he preferred using that tongue, and it being a matter of indiflerence to me, I left him the power of selection. The story I give, is word for word with the original, making allowances for the additions or explanations necessary between the two languages. Before setting out, however, I would admonish the reader to procure the book entitled "The exploits of all the kings and heroes of Ireland, from their arrival at Dunambare, a few months after the duluge, until the year 1798; an epic poem in contracted old Irish, by Mr. Theophilus Tertius Macwhacbochail. He will there see some interesting accounts of the family of O'Driscoll, or the 'harper', who was the great ancestor of our present hero.

About four and twenty miles to the south west of Bantry, lies the dreary island of Shirky. Situated near the most romantic part of the western coast, it forms a sad and striking contrast with the enlivening scenery around. It is seen to most advantage from the summit of that mountain which rises over that beautiful sheet of water called Loch Ein', that lies about three miles to the west of Skibbereen. Cape Clear stretches out its barren arms into the ocean to a long extent, and Shirky lies between it and the main land. Though craggy and uneven, it is nevertheless a comparatively flat tract of rock. Its two ends jut out to the north and south much beyond those of Cape Clear, and its breadth bears no proportion to its length. There are not many deep ravines or high cliffs in it, on account of which, the wretched huts scattered over it, possess very trifling shelter. To view it on a cold stormy day, it would seem the last spot on the earth where any thing like a human being would venture to live, even for one week. The sea mew or wild seal would esteem it an uncomfortable refuge. Notwithstanding its numerous inconveniencies, the long island of Shirky is rather thickly inhabited; and the fishermen who dwell on its barren surface seem perfectly content, if not happy with their situation. Cape Clear, which is directly to the west of it, is a kind of Botany Bay, or rather La Trappe, whither the youngest priests after receiving orders, are sent from the diocesses of Cloyne and Ross. They remain there during the space of a year and a half; and the circumstance of their preferring it to Shirky as a dwelling place, though apparently more exposed to storms, would sufficiently argue its intolerable dreariness and intensity of gloom. At no season of the year does pleasure ever sit upon its surface. The rich glow of sunset, in which the most gloomy feature assumes a mellowness of aspect, serves but to shew the horrors, and to draw into light the retiring sequestration of this barren

retreat.

The only object,-a solitary one-which may seem in some measure to cast a redeeming character on this spot, is the ruin of a very ancient castle which had been situated about the centre of the island;-and what may appear much more wonderful, is, that contrary to the construction of similar habitations on other parts of the coast, it presents the appearance of being built for the purpose of dwelling therein, and not entirely for the

* This rare and curious production is, I am informed in the possession of Crohoore na Leabhar who dwells at present in the street called Mbohar na Mbarracs" vulgo 'barrack road.' It is as yet in manuscript, and is divided into 75 cantos, each canto containing 230 stanzas; it is to be regretted that half of the last stanza of the last canto has been lost. P. 1. M. C. S.