"Sure there's no saxton, Sorr," said car-man Jerry Magwire, in answer to a question, "We dig the graves ourselves whin we put them away, an' sometimes there's a fight in the place whin two berryin's meet. Why is that? Faith, it's not for us to be talkin' o' them deep subjects widout respict, but it's the belafe that the last wan berrid must be carryin' wather all the time to the sowls in Purgathory till the next wan comes to take the place av him. So, ye mind, when two berryin's happen to meet, aitch party is shtrivin' to be done foorst, an' wan thries to make the other lave aff, an' thin they have it. Troth, Irishmen are too handy wid their fishts entirely, it's a weak pint wid 'em. But it's a sad sight, so it is, to see the graves wid the nettles on thim an' the walls all tumblin'. It isn't every owld church that has a caretaker like him of Cashel. Bedad, he was betther nor a flock av goats to banish the weeds.

"Who was he? Faith, I niver saw him but the wan time, an' thin I had only a shot at him as he was turnin' a corner, for it was as I was lavin' Cormac's chapel the time I wint to Cashel on a pinance, bekase av a little throuble on me mind along av a pig that wasn't mine, but got mixed wid mine whin I was afther killin' it. But, as I obsarved, it was only a shot at him I had, for it wasn't aften that he was seen in the daytime, but done all his work in the night, an' it isn't me that 'ud be climbin' the Rock av Cashel afther the sun 'ud go to slape. Not that there's avil sper'ts there, for none that's bad can set fut on that holy ground day or night, but I'm not afther wantin' to meet a sper't av any kind, even if it's good, for how can ye tell about thim. Sure aven the blessed saints have been desaved, an' it's not for a sinner like me to be settin' up for to know more than thimselves. But it was the long, bent body that he had, like he'd a burdhen on his back, as they say, God be good to him, he had on his sowl, an' a thin, white face wid the hair an' beard hangin' about it, an' the great, blue eyes lookin' out as if he was gazin' on the other worruld. No, I didn't run down the rock, but I didn't walk aither, but jist bechuxt the two, wid a sharp eye round the corners that I passed. No more do I belave there was harrum in him, but, God's prisence be about us, ye can't tell.

"He was a man o' Clare be the name av Paddy O'Sullivan, an' lived on the highway betune Crusheen an' Ennis, an' they do say that whin he was a lad, there wasn't a finer to be seen in the County; a tall, shtrappin' young felly wid an eye like a bay'net, an' a fisht like a shmith, an' the fut an' leg av him 'ud turn the hearts o' half the wimmin in the parish. An' they was all afther him, like they always do be whin a man is good lookin', sure I've had a little o' that same exparience mesilf. Ye needn't shmile. I know me head has no more hair on it than an egg, an' I think me last tooth 'ull come out tomorrer, bad cess to the day, but they do say that forty years ago, I cud have me pick av the gurruls, an' mebbe they're mishtaken an' mebbe not. But I was sayin', the gurruls were afther Paddy like rats afther chaze, an' sorra a wan o' thim but whin she spied him on the road, 'ud shlip behind the hedge to shmooth her locks a bit an' set the shawl shtraight on her head. An' whin there was a bit av a dance, niver a boy 'ud get a chance till Paddy made his chice to dance wid, an' sorra a good word the rest o' the gurruls 'ud give that same. Och, the tongues that wimmin have! Sure they're sharper nor a draggin's tooth. Faith, I know that well too, for I married two o' them an' larned a deal too afther doin' it, an' axin' yer pardon, it's my belafe that if min knewn as much before marryin' as afther, bedad, the owld maid population 'ud be greatly incrased.

"Howandiver, afther a bit, Paddy left carin' for thim all, that, in my consate, is a moighty safe way, and begun to look afther wan. Her name was Nora O'Moore, an' she was as clever a gurrul as 'ud be found bechuxt Limerick an' Galway. She was kind o' resarved like, wid a face as pale as a shroud, an' hair as black as a crow, an' eyes that looked at ye an' never seen ye. No more did she talk much, an' whin Paddy 'ud be sayin' his fine spaches, she'd listen wid her eyes cast down, an' whin she'd had enough av his palaver, she'd jist look at him, an' somehow Paddy felt that his p'liteness wasn't the thing to work wid. He cudn't undhershtand her, an' bedad, many's the man that's caught be not undhershtandin' thim. There's rivers that's quiet on top bekase they're deep, an' more that's quiet bekase they're not deep enough to make a ripple, but phat's the differ if ye can't sound thim, an' whin a woman's quiet, begorra, it's not aisy to say if she's deep or shallow. But Nora was a deep wan, an' as good as iver drew a breath. She thought a dale av Paddy, only she'd be torn limb from limb afore she'd let him know it till he confist first. Well, my dear, Paddy wint on, at firsht it was only purtindin' he was, an' whin he found she cudn't be tuk wid his chaff, he got in airnest, an' afore he knewn it, he was dead in love wid Nora, an' had as much show for gettin' out agin as a shape in a bog, an' sorra a bit did he know at all at all, whether she cared a traneen for him. It's funny entirely that whin a man thinks a woman is afther him, he's aff like a hare, but if she doesn't care a rap, begob, he'll give the nose aff his face to get her. So it was wid Paddy an' Nora, axceptin' that Paddy didn't know that Nora wanted him as much as he wanted her.

"So, wan night, whin he was bringin' her from a dance that they'd been at, he said to her that he loved her betther than life an' towld her would she marry him, an' she axed was it jokin' or in airnest he was, an' he said cud she doubt it whin he loved her wid all the veins av his heart, an' she trimbled, turnin' paler than iver, an' thin blushin' rosy red for joy an' towld him yes, an' he kissed her, an' they both thought the throuble was all over foriver. It's a way thim lovers has, an' they must be axcused, bekase it's the same wid thim all.

"But it wasn't at all, fur Nora had an owld squireen av a father, that was as full av maneness as eggs is av mate. Sure he was the divil entirely at home, an' niver left off wid the crassness that was in him. The timper av him was spiled be rason o' losing his bit o' money wid cârds an' racin', an' like some min, he tuk it out wid his wife an' dawther. There was only the three o' thim in it, an' they do say that whin he was crazy wid dhrink, he'd bate thim right an' lift, an' turn thim out o' the cabin into the night, niver heeding, the baste, phat 'ud come to thim. But they niver said a word thimselves, an' the nabers only larned av it be seein' thim.

"'Sure darlint,' says the saint, 'ye know how it bruk me heart entirely to lave ye, no more wud I have done it, but be the will o' God. Ye know I loved ye, an' God forgive me, I'm afeared I love ye still, but it isn't right, Kathleen. Go in pace, in the name o' God, an' lave me,' says he.

"'No Kevin,' says Satan, a-throwin' himself on Kevin's breast, wid both arrums round his neck, 'I'll never lave ye,' lettin' an to cry an' dhrop tears an the face o' the blessed saint.

"It's no aisy matther to say no to a woman anyhow, aven to an ugly woman, but when it's a good-lookin' wan that's in it, an' she axin' ye wid her arrums round ye an' the crystal dhrops like that many dimunds fallin' from her eyes that look at ye like shtars through a shower av rain, begob it's meself that doesn't undhershtand why Saint Kevin didn't give up at wanst, an' so he wud if he hadn't been the blessed saint that he was. But he was mightily flusthered, an' no wondher, an' stud there wid his breast hayvin', a-shtrivin' to resist the timptation to thrade a crown in heaven fur a love on airth.

"'Lave this place, Kevin,' says the tempther, 'an' come wid me, we'll go away an' be happy together forever,' an' wid that word, an' as the fate av the saint was trimblin' in the balances, the holy angels o' God stud beside him, an' wan whishpered in his ear that the Kathleen he loved before was a pure, good woman, an' that she'd 'a' died afore she'd come to him that-a-way.

"'No,' says he, wid sudden shtrength. 'It's not Kathleen that's in it, but an avil sper't. God's prisence be about us! Get you gone Satan an' sayce to throuble me,' an' that minnit the blessed saint jumped up aff the ground an' wid his two feet gev the owld rayprobate a thunderin' kick in the stummick, an' when he doubled up wid the pain an' fell back an' clapped his hands together on the front av him, Saint Kevin gev him another in his rare, axin' yer pardon, that sent him clane over the clift, wid Saint Kevin gatherin' shtones an' flingin' thim afther him wid all the might that was in him. So the minnit the saint kicked him the very foorst kick, Kathleen disappeared, an' there was the owld black Belzebub a-tumblin' over, an' fallin' down to the lake, holdin' his stummick an' thryin' hard to catch himself wid his wings afore he'd hit the wather. But he did by the time he got to the bottom an' flew away, bellerin' worse nor a bull with a dog hangin' to his nose, so that all the monks woke wid fright, an' cudn't go to shlape agin till they'd said a craydo an' five aves apiece, but the blessed saint set be his bed a-sayin' his baids the rest o' the night wid a pile o' shtones convaynient to his hand fur fear the divil 'ud come back. But Satan flew over an that hill an' rubbed himself before an' behind too, where the saint had kicked him, an' didn't go back, for he'd enough o' the saint fur that time. But he was mightily vexed, an' not to lose the chance fur to do some mischief before he'd go away, he pulled down all the walls that the poor monks had built that day.

"Now there's thim that says that it was the rale Kathleen that Saint Kevin kicked over the clift, but sure that's not thrue, fur it's not in an Irishman to thrate a woman that-a-way, that makes me belave that the shtory I'm tellin' ye was the thrue shtory an' that it wasn't Kathleen at all, but Satan, that Saint Kevin thrated wid such onpoliteness, an my blessin' an him fur that same, fur he come out very well axceptin' five or six blisthers on his face, where the divil's tears touched him, that's well known to make blisthers on phatever they touch.

"Well, as I was sayin', he pulled down the church walls, an' the monks put thim up agin, an' the next mornin' they were down, an' so fur a good bit the contist went an betune the divil an' the monks, a-shtrivin' if they cud build up fashter than he cud pull down, fur he says to himself, Satan did, 'Jagers, I can't be losin' me time here widout doin' something, nor, bedad, no more can I tell how to rache the saint widout sarcumspectin' him.'

"But the saint bate him at that game, for wan night, afther the work was done, he put half the monks on the wall to watch there the night, an' when Satan come flyin' along like the dirthy bat that he was, there was the monks all along be the day's job, aitch wan a-sayin' his baids as fast as he cud an' a bottle o' holy wather be his side to throw at the divil when he'd come. So he went from thim an' be takin' turns at watchin' an' workin', they finished the church.

"In coorse o' time, Saint Kevin wanted another church an' begun to build it too, for he said, 'Begob, I'll have that church done be fall if every grain o' sand in Glendalough becomes a divil an' rises up fur to purvint it,' an' so he did, Glory be to God, but at first was bothered to git the money fur to raise the walls. Well, wan day as he was in the bother, he was walkin' an the hills, an' he heard the clattherin' av a horse's feet behind him an the road, an' afore he cud turn round, up comes the most illigant black horse ye ever seen, an' a tall gintleman a ridin' av him, wid all the look av a soger, a broad hat on the head av him, an' a silk jacket wid goold trimmin's, an' shtripes on his britches, an' gloves to his elbows, an' soord an' shpurs a-jinglin', the same as he was a rich lord.

"'God save ye,' says the saint.

"'God save ye kindly,' says the gintleman, an' they walked an together an' fell into convarsin'.

"'I'm towld ye're afther buildin' another church,' says the gintleman.

"'It's thrue for ye,' says the saint, 'but it's meself that's bothered about that same, for I've no money,' says he.

"'That's too bad,' says the gintleman; 'have ye axed for help?' says he.

"'Faix, indade I have,' says the saint, 'but the times is hard, an' the money goin' out o' the counthry to thim blaggârd landlords in England,' says he.

"'It's right ye are,' says the gintleman, 'but I've hopes o' betther times when the tinants get the land in their own hands,' says he. 'I'm goin' to right thim avils. I'm the new Lord Liftinant,' says he, 'an' able to help ye an the job, undher a proper undhershtandin',' says he.

"At foorst Saint Kevin was that surprised that he'd like to dhrop an the road, fur he hadn't heard av the 'pintmint av a new Lord Liftinant, but he raizoned wid himself that it cud aisily be done widout his knowin' av it, an' so he thought he'd a shtrake av luck in seein' av him.

"'God be good to yer Lordship,' says he, 'an' make yer bed in the heavens, an' it's thankful I'd be fur any shmall favors ye plaze to give, fur it's very poor we are.'

"'An' phat 'ud ye say to a prisint av tin thousand pound,' says the gintleman, 'purvided ye spind it an the church ye have an' not in buildin' a new wan,' says the gintleman, an' wid that word, Saint Kevin knew the ould inimy, an' shtarted at him.

"But the divil had enough o' Saint Kevin's heels, for he'd felt the kick he cud give wid 'em, an' faix, the blessed saint was as well sarcumstanced in that quarther as a donkey, an' Belzebub knew that same, so he niver stayed, but when he saw Saint Kevin comin', immejitly the black horse changed into a big dhraggin, an' the illigant close dhrapped aff the divil an' in his own image he went aff shpurrin' the dhraggin, he an' the baste flappin' their wings as fast as they cud to get out of the saint's way an' lavin' afther thim the shmell av sulfur that shtrong that the blessed saint did nothin' for an hour but hould his nose an' cough.

"Afther thim two axpayriences, the divil seen it was no use o' him offerin' fur to conthraven Saint Kevin, so he rayjuiced his efforts to botherin' the monks at the work. He'd hang about day an' night, doin' all the mischief that he cud, bekase, says he, 'If I can't shtop thim, by Jayminy, I'll delay thim to that degray that they'll find it the shlowest job they ever undhertuk,' says he, an' so it was. When they'd finish a bit o' the wall an' lave it to dhry, up 'ud come the divil an' kick it over; when two o' them 'ud be carrying a heavy shtone, the divil, unbeknownst to thim, 'ud knock it out o' their hands so as to make it dhrop on their toes, a-thinkin' belike, that they'd shwear on the quiet to thimselves: that they never did; when a holy father 'ud lay down his hammer an' turn his back, the divil 'ud snatch it up an' fling it aff the wall; till wid his knockin' over the wather-bucket, an' shcrapin' aff the morthar, an' upsettin' the hod o' bricks, an' makin' the monks forgit where they'd put things, it got so that they were in a muck o' shweat every hour o' the day; an' from that time it got to be said, when anything wint wrong widout a raizon, that the divil's in it.

"Now whin Saint Kevin conshecrated the church, they tuk wid it the ground round about as far as ye see that shtone wall, for, says he, 'Sure it'll always be handy.' So in coorse o' time, as the second church was gettin' done, wan avenin' Saint Kevin went out wid a bucket fur to milk his cow, that had just come down from the mountain where she'd been grazin'. Well, he let the calf to her, an' the poor little baste bein' hungry, fur I belave the cow hadn't come up the night afore, it begun on wan side an' the saint an the other, an' the calf was suckin' away wid all the jaws it had, an' kep' up a haythenish punchin' wid its nose beways av a hint to the cow fur to give up more milk. The calf punched an' the cow kicked, fur, mind ye, the divil was in thim both, the poor bastes, no more was it their fault at all, an' betune howldin' the bucket in wan hand an' milking wid the other wan, an' kapin' his eye shkinned for the cow's heels, an' shovin' the calf from his side, the saint was like to lose all the milk.

"'Tatther an' agers,' says he, 'shtand shtill, ye onnattheral crayther, or I'll bate the life out o' ye, so I will,' says he, tarin' mad, fur the calf was gettin' all, an' the bottom o' the bucket not covered. But the cow wudn't do it, so the blessed saint tuk the calf be the years fur to drag him away, an' then the cow run at him wid her horns so that he had to let go the calf's years an' dodge an' was in a bother entirely. But he got him a club in case the cow 'ud offer fur to hook him agin, an' opened the gate into the field behind the church, an' afther a good dale o' jumpin' about he sucsayded in dhrivin' in the cow an' kapin' out the calf. Then he shut the gate an' wipin' the shweat aff his blessed face, he got the bucket an' shtool an' set down to milk in pace. But be this time the cow was tarin' mad at bein' shut from the calf, an' at the first shquaze he gev her, she jumped like she'd heard a banshee, an' then phat 'ud she do but lift up her heel an' give him a kick an the skull fit to crack it fur him an' laid him on the grass, an' turnin' round, she put her fut in the bucket an' stud lookin' at him, as fur to ax if he'd enough.

"'The divil brile the cow,' says the saint, God forgive him fur cursin' her, but ye see he'd lost all consate av her be the throuble he'd had wid her afore, besides the crack on his head, that was well nigh aiquel to the kick he cud give himself, so that he was axcusable fur phat he was sayin', fur it's no joke I'm tellin' ye to be made a showbogher av, be a baste av a cow.

"'Sure I will, yer Riverince,' says a deep voice behind him, 'an' thank ye fur that same favor, fur it's a fat bit she is.'

"Saint Kevin riz up a-rubbin' his head as fast as he cud an' looked round an' there sure enough was owld Satan himself standin' there grinnin' away wid the horrid mouth av him stratched from year to year, a-laughin' at the fix the saint was in. Well, the minnit Saint Kevin set his two eyes an him, he knewn he had him, fur ye see, the ground was conshecrated, but the divil didn't know it fur it was done wan time when he'd gone to Cork to attind a landlord's convintion to raise the rints on a lot o' shtarving tinants, that bein' a favorite job wid him. If he'd knewn the ground was holy, he'd never dared to set fut an it, fur ye see, if ye can ketch the divil an holy ground where he's no bizness, ye've got him fast an' tight an' can pull him in when ye plaze. But the saint wasn't goin' to give the owld desaver any show so he run at him an' gripped him be the horns, the same as he was a goat, an' threw him an the ground an' tied his hands wid a pace av his own gown that he tore aff, an' the divil, do phat he cud, wasn't able to break loose.

"'Now,' says he, 'ye slatherin', blood-suckin', blaggârdin' nagur, I'll fix ye, ye owld hippypotaymus, so as ivery sowl in Ireland 'ull know ye where ever ye're met.'

"So he rowled up his shlaves an' shpit an his hands an' fell to work. He onschrewed the divil's left leg at the jint av the knee, an' laid it an the grass. Then he tuk aff the cow's right hind leg at the knee an' laid that an the grass. Then he schrewed the owld cow's leg an the divil's knee, an' the divil's fut an the owld cow's leg, an' untied Satan an' bid him git up.

"'Now,' says he to him, 'do you go at wanst, an' I bid ye that when ye meet man or mortial, the foorst thing ye do is to show that fut that they know from the shtart who ye are. Now shtart, ye vagabone blaggârd av a shpalpeen, or I'll kick the backbone shtrait up into the shkull o' ye. Out!' he says, flourishin' his fut at him.

"Well, the divil made a break fur to run, bekase he wanted no more benedictions from the toes o' Saint Kevin, but not bein' used to his new leg, the very foorst shtep he made wid it, it kicked out behind agin this shtone, that wasn't a crass at all then, an' made this hole that ye see, an' Saint Kevin tuk the shtone an' made a crass av it aftherwards. But the divil didn't shtop at all when the leg wudn't go fur him, fur he seen the blessed saint comin', a-wavin' his fut about, so he rowled over an' over till he got to the wall, then made a shpring an it an' out av sight like a ghost.

"That's the way Satan got his lame leg, bekase, ye see he's niver larned fur to manage it, an' goes limpity-lop, an' though he wears a cloak, is obligated fur to show the cow's fut whenever he talks wid any wan, fur if he doesn't, begorra, the leg does fur itself, fur it's niver forgot the thrick av kicking the owld cow larned it, an' if Satan waits a minnit, up goes the cow's fut, as hard an' high as the last time she kicked the saint. No more did the divil ever dare to come there agin, so the blessed Saint Kevin was left in pace to build the siven churches, an the divil wasn't ever seen in Glendalough, till the day the saint was berrid, an' then he peeped over the hill to look at the berryin', but he wudn't come down, thinkin', belike, it was a lie they were tellin' him when they said the saint was dead, fur to injuice him to come into the glen an' give Saint Kevin wan more whack at him wid his fut. An' they do say, that he's been to the besht docthers in the univaarse fur to get him another leg, but they cudn't do it, Glory be to God; an' so he is lame an' must show his cloven fut, so as ivery wan knows at wanst that it's the divil himself that's in it, an' can run away from him before he's time to do thim harm.

Under sail and oar, a hundred boats put off from the shore to investigate; when, as they neared the spot, the strange island became dim in outline, less vivid in color, and at last vanished entirely, leaving the wonder-stricken villagers to return, fully convinced that for the first time in their lives they had really seen the Enchanted Island. For once there was a topic of conversation that would outlast the day, and as the story of the Enchanted Island passed from lip to lip, both story and island grew in size till the latter was little less than a continent, containing cities and castles, palaces and cathedrals, towers and steeples, stupendous mountain ranges, fertile valleys, and wide spreading plains; while the former was limited only by the patience of the listener, and embraced the personal experience, conclusions, reflections, and observations of every man, woman, and child in the parish who had been fortunate enough to see the island, hear of it, or tell where it had been seen elsewhere.

For the Enchanted Island of the west coast is not one of those ordinary, humdrum islands that rise out of the sea in a night, and then, having come, settle down to business on scientific principles, and devote their attention to the collection of soil for the use of plants and animals. It disdains any such commonplace course as other islands are content to follow, but is peripatetic, or, more properly, seafaring, in its habits, and as fond of travelling as a sailor. At its own sweet will it comes, and, having shown itself long enough to convince everybody who is not an "innocent entirely" of its reality, it goes without leave-taking or ceremony, and always before boats can approach near enough to make a careful inspection. This is the invariable history of its appearance. No one has ever been able to come close to its shores, much less land upon them, but it has been so often seen on the west coast, that a doubt of its existence, if expressed in the company of coast fishermen, will at once establish for the sceptic a reputation for ignorance of the common affairs of every-day life.

In Cork, for instance, it has been seen by hundreds of people off Ballydonegan Bay, while many more can testify to its appearance off the Bay of Courtmacsherry. In Kerry, all the population of Ballyheige saw it a few years ago, lying in Tralee Bay, between Kerry Head and Brandon's Head, and shortly before, the villagers of Lisneakeabree, just across the bay from Ballyheige, saw it between their shore and Kerry Head, while the fishermen in Saint Finan's Bay and in Ballinskelligs are confident it has been seen, if not by themselves, at least by some of their friends. It has appeared at the mouth of the Shannon, and off Carrigaholt in Clare, where the people saw a city on it. This is not so remarkable as it seems, for, in justice to the Enchanted Island, it should be stated that its resemblance to portions of the neighboring land is sometimes very close, and shows that the "enchanter" who has it under a spell knows his business, and being determined to keep his island for himself changes its appearance as well as its location in order that his property may not be recognized nor appropriated.

In Galway, the Enchanted Island has appeared in the mouth of Ballinaleame Bay, a local landlord at the time making a devout wish that it would stay there. The fishermen of Ballynaskill, in the Joyce Country, saw it about fifteen years ago, since when it appeared to the Innisshark islanders. The County Mayo has seen it, not only from the Achille Island cliffs, but also from Downpatrick Head; and in Sligo, the fishermen of Ballysadare Bay know all about it, while half the population of Inishcrone still remember its appearance about twenty years ago. The Inishboffin islanders in Donegal say it looked like their own island, "sure two twins couldn't be liker," and the people on Gweebarra Bay, when it appeared there, observed along the shore of the island a village like Maas, the one in which they lived. It has also appeared off Rathlin's Island, on the Antrim coast, but, so far as could be learned, it went no further to the east, confining its migrations to the west coast, between Cork on the south and Antrim on the north.

Concerning the island itself, legendary authorities differ on many material points. Some hold it to be "a rale island sure enough," and that its exploits are due to "jommethry or some other inchantmint," while opponents of this materialistic view are inclined to the opinion that the island is not what it seems to be, that is to say, not "airth an' shtones, like as thim we see, but only a deludherin' show that avil sper'ts, or the divil belike, makes fur to desave us poor dishsolute craythers." Public opinion on the west coast is therefore strongly divided on the subject, unity of sentiment existing on two points only; that the island has been seen, and that there is something quite out of the ordinary in its appearance. "For ye see, yer Anner," observed a Kerry fisherman, "it's agin nacher fur a rale island to be comin' and goin' like a light in a bog, an' whin ye do see it, ye can see through it, an' by jagers, if it's a thrue island, a mighty quare wan it is an' no mishtake."

On so deep and difficult a subject, an ounce of knowledge is worth a pound of speculation, and the knowledge desired was finally furnished by an old fisherman of Ballyconealy Bay, on the Connemara coast, west of Galway. This individual, Dennis Moriarty by name, knew all about the Enchanted Island, having not only seen it himself, but, when a boy, learned its history from a "fairy man," who obtained his information from "the good people" themselves, the facts stated being therefore, of course, of indisputable authority, what the fairies did not know concerning the doings of supernatural and enchanted circles, being not worth knowing. Mr. Moriarty was stricken in years, having long given up active service in the boats and relegated himself to lighter duties on shore. He had much confidence in the accuracy of his information on the subject of the island, and a glass of grog, and "dhraw ov the pipe," brought out the story in a rich, mellow brogue.

"Faith, I'm not rightly sure how long ago it was, but it was a good while an' before the blessed Saint Pathrick come to the counthry an' made Crissans av the haythens in it. Howandiver, it was in thim times that betune this an' Inishmore, there was an island. Some calls it the Island av Shades, an' more says its name was the Sowls Raypose, but it doesn't matther, fur no wan knows. It was as full av payple as it could howld, an' cities wor on it wid palaces an' coorts an' haythen timples an' round towers all covered wid goold an' silver till they shone so ye cudn't see for the brightness.

"And they wor all haythens there, an' the king av the island was the biggest av thim, sure he was Satan's own, an' tuk delight in doin' all the bloody things that come into his head. If the waither that minded the table did annything to displaze him, he'd out wid a soord the length av me arrum an' cut aff his head. If they caught a man shtaling, the king 'ud have him hung at wanst widout the taste av a thrial, 'Bekase,' says the king, says he, 'maybe he didn't do it at all, an' so he'd get aff, so up wid him,' an' so they'd do. He had more than a hunderd wives, ginerally spakin', but he wasn't throubled in the laste be their clack, for whin wan had too much blasthogue in her jaw, or begun gostherin' at him, he cut aff her head an' said, beways av a joke, that 'that's the only cure fur a woman's tongue.' An' all the time, from sun to sun, he was cursin' an' howlin' wid rage, so as I'm sure yer Anner wouldn't want fur to hear me say thim blastpheemies that he said. To spake the truth av him, he was wicked in that degray that, axin' yer pardon, the owld divil himself wouldn't own him.

"So wan time, there was a thunderin' phillaloo in the king's family, fur mind ye, he had thin just a hunderd wives. Now it's my consate that it's aisier fur a hunderd cats to spind the night in pace an the wan thatch than for two wimmin to dhraw wather out av the same well widout aitch wan callin' the other wan all the names she can get out av her head. But whin ye've a hunderd av 'em, an' more than a towsand young wans, big an' little, its aisey to see that the king av the island had plinty av use fur the big soord that he always kept handy to settle family dishputes wid. So, be the time the row I'm tellin' ye av was over an' the wimmin shtopped talkin', the king was a widdy-man just ten times, an' had only ninety wives lift.

"So he says to himself, 'Bedad, I must raycrout the force agin, or thim that's left 'ull think I cant do widout 'em an' thin there'll be no ind to their impidince. Begorra, this marryin' is a sayrious business,' says he, sighin', fur he'd got about all the wimmin that wanted to be quanes an' didn't just know where to find anny more. But, be pickin' up wan here an' there, afther a bit he got ninety-nine, an' then cud get no more, an' in spite av sendin' men to ivery quarther av Ireland an' tellin' the kings' dawthers iverywhere how lonesome he was, an' how the coort was goin' to rack an' ruin entirely fur the want av another quane to mind the panthry, sorra a woman cud be had in all Ireland to come, fur they'd all heard av the nate manes he tuk to kape pace in his family.

"But afther thryin' iverywhere else, he sent a man into the Joyce Counthry, to a mighty fine princess av the Joyces. She didn't want to go at first, but the injuicemints war so shtrong that she couldn't howld out, for the king sint her presints widout end an' said, if she'd marry him, he'd give her all the dimunds they cud get on a donkey's back.

"Now over beyant the Twelve Pins, in the Joyce Counthry, there was a great inchanter, that had all kinds av saycrets, an' knew where ye'd dig for a pot av goold, an' all about doctherin', and cud turn ye into a pig in a minnit, an' build a cassel in wan night, an' make himself disappare when ye wanted him, an' take anny shape he plazed, so as to look to be a baste whin he wasn't, an' was a mighty dape man entirely. Now to him wint the princess an' axed him phat to do, for she didn't care a traneen for the king, but 'ud give the two eyes out av her head to get the dimunds. The inchanter heard phat she had to say an' then towld her, 'Now, my dear, you marry the owld felly, an' have no fear, fur av he daars to touch a hair av yer goolden locks, I'll take care av you an' av him too.'

"So he gev her a charm that she was to say whin she wanted him to come an' another wan to repate whin she was in mortial danger an' towld her fur to go an' get marr'ed an' get the dimunds as quick as she cud. An' that she did, an' at foorst the king was mightily plazed at gettin' her, bekase she was hard to get, an' give her the dimunds an' all she wanted, so she got on very well an' tuk care av the panthry an' helped the other wives about the coort.

"Wan day the king got up out av the goolden bed he shlept an, wid a terrible sulk an him, an' in a state av mind entirely, for the wind was in the aiste an' he had the roomytisms in his back. So he cursed an' shwore like a Turk an' whin the waither axed him to come to his brekquest, he kicked him into the yard av the coort, an' wint in widout him an' set down be the table. So wan av the quanes brought him his bowl av stirabout an' thin he found fault wid it. 'It's burned,' say he, an' threw it at her. Then Quane Peggy Joyce, that hadn't seen the timper that was an him, come in from the panthry wid a shmile an her face an' a big noggin o' milk in her hand. 'Good morrow to ye,' she says to him, but the owld vagabone didn't spake a word. 'Good morrow,' she says to him agin, an' thin he broke out wid a fury.

"'Howld yer pace, ye palaverin' shtrap. D' ye think I'm to be deefened wid yer tongue? Set the noggin an the table an' be walkin' aff wid yerself or I'll make ye sorry ye come,' says he.

"It was the first time he iver spake like that to her, an' the Irish blood ov her riz, an' in a minnit she was as mad as a gandher and as bowld as a lion.

"'Don't you daar to spake that-a-way to me, Sorr,' she says to him. 'I'll have ye know I won't take a word av yer impidince. Me fathers wore crowns ages afore yer bogthrottin' grandfather come to this island, an' ivery wan knows he was the first av his dirthy thribe that had shoes an his feet.' An' she walked strait up to him an' folded her arrums an' looked into his face as impidint as a magpie. 'Don't think fur to bully me,' she says. 'I come av a race that niver owned a coward, and I wouldn't give that fur you an' all the big soords ye cud carry,' says she, givin' her fingers a snap right at the end av his nose.

"Now the owld haythen niver had anny wan to spake like that to him, an' at first was that surprised like as a horse had begun fur to convarse at him, no more cud he say a word, he was that full o' rage, and sat there, openin' and shuttin' his mouth an' swellin' up like he'd burst, an' his face as red as a turkey-cock's. Thin he remimbered his soord ah' pulled it out an' stratched out his hand fur to ketch the quane an' cut aff her head. But she was too quick for him entirely, an' whin he had the soord raised, she said the charm that was to purtect her, an' afore ye cud wink, there stood the blood-suckin' owld villin, mortified to shtone wid his arrum raised an' his hand reached out, an' as stiff as a mast.

"Thin she said the other charm that called the inchanter an' he come at wanst. She towld him phat she done an' he said it was right av her, an' as she was a purty smart woman he said he'd marry her himself. So he did, an' bein' that the island was cursed be rayzon av the king's crimes, they come to Ireland wid all the payple. So they come to Connemara, an' the inchanter got husbands fur all the king's wives an' homes fur all the men av the island. But he inchanted the island an' made it so that the bad king must live in it alone as long as the sun rises an' sits. No more does the island stand still, but must go thravellin' up an' down the coast, an' wan siven years they see it in Kerry an' the next siven years in Donegal, an' so it goes, an' always will, beways av a caution to kings not to cut aff the heads av their wives."

Instances are so abundant as to defy enumeration, but a most notable one is Tara, the greatest as it was the holiest city of pagan Ireland. Now it is a group of irregular mounds that the casual observer would readily mistake for natural hills, but for ages the name clung to the place until at last the attention of antiquaries was attracted, interest was roused, investigation made, excavation begun, and the site of Tara made a certainty.

Not all ancient Irish cities, however, escaped the hand of time as well as Tara, for there are geological indications of great natural convulsions in the island at a date comparatively recent, and not a few of the Irish lakes, whose name is legion, were formed by depression or upheaval, almost within the period of written history. A fertile valley traversed by a stream, a populous city by the little river, an earthquake-upheaval lower down the watercourse, closing the exit from the valley, a rising and spreading of the water, an exodus of the inhabitants, such has undoubtedly been the history of Lough Derg and Lough Ree, which are but reservoirs in the course of the River Shannon, while the upper and lower Erne lakes are likewise simply expansions of the river Erne. Lough Neag had a similar origin, the same being also true of Loughs Allen and Key. The Killarney Lakes give indisputable evidence of the manner in which they were formed, being enlargements of the Laune, and Loughs Carra and Mask, in Mayo, are believed to have a subterranean outlet to Lough Carrib, the neighborhood of all three testifying in the strongest possible manner to the sudden closing of the natural outlet for the contributing streams.

The towns which at one time stood on ground now covered by the waters of these lakes were not forgotten. The story of their fate was told by one generation to another, but in course of ages the natural cause, well known to the unfortunates at the time of the calamity, was lost to view, and the story of the disaster began to assume supernatural features. The destruction of the city became sudden; the inhabitants perished in their dwellings; and, as a motive for so signal an event was necessary, it was found in the punishment of duty neglected or crime committed.

Lough Allen is a small body of water in the County Leitrim, and on its shores, partly covered by the waves, are several evidences of human habitation, indications that the waters at present are much higher than formerly. Among the peasants in the neighborhood there is a legend that the little valley once contained a village. In the public square there was a fountain guarded by spirits, fairies, elves, and leprechawns, who objected to the building of the town in that locality, but upon an agreement between themselves and the first settlers permitted the erection of the houses on condition that the fountain be covered with an elegant stone structure, the basin into which the water flowed from the spring to be protected by a cover never to be left open, under pain of the town's destruction, the good people being that nate an' clane that they didn't want the laste speck av dust in the wather they drunk. So a decree was issued, by the head man of the town, that the cover be always closed by those resorting to the fountain for water, and that due heed might be taken, children, boys under age, and unmarried women, were forbidden under any circumstances to raise the lid of the basin.

For many years things went on well, the fairies and the townspeople sharing alike the benefits of the fountain, till, on one unlucky day, preparations for a wedding were going on in a house close by, and the mother of the bride stood in urgent need of a bucket of water. Not being able to bring it herself, the alleged reason being "she was scholdin' the house in ordher," she commanded her daughter, the bride expectant, to go in her stead.

The latter objected, urging the edict of the head man already mentioned, but was overcome, partly by her mother's argument, that "the good people know ye're the same as married now that the banns are cried," but principally by the more potent consideration, "Av ye havn't that wather here in a wink, I'll not lave a whole bone in yer body, ye lazy young shtrap, an' me breaking me back wid the work," she took the bucket and proceeded to the fountain with the determination to get the water and "shlip out agin afore the good people 'ud find her out." Had she adhered to this resolution, all would have been well, as the fairies would have doubtless overlooked this infraction of the city ordinance. But as she was filling the pail, her lover came in. Of course the two at once began to talk of the all-important subject, and having never before taken water from the fountain, she turned away, forgetting to close the cover of the well. In an instant, a stream, resistless in force, burst forth, and though all the married women of the town ran to put down the cover, their efforts were in vain, the flood grew mightier, the village was submerged, and, with two exceptions, all the inhabitants were drowned. The girl and her lover violated poetic justice by escaping; for, seeing the mischief they had done, they were the first to run away, witnessed the destruction of the town from a neighboring hill, and were afterwards married, the narrator of this incident coming to the sensible conclusion that "it was too bad entirely that the wans that got away were the wans that, be rights, ought to be droonded first."

Upper Lough Erne has a legend, in all important particulars identical with that of Lough Allen, the catastrophe being, however, in the former case brought about by the carelessness of a woman who left her baby at home when she went after water and hearing it scream, "as aven the best babies do be doin', God bless 'em, for no betther rayson than to lishen at thimselves," she hurried back, forgetting to cover the well, with a consequent calamity like that which followed similar forgetfulness at Lough Allen.

In the County Mayo is found Lough Conn, once, according to local story-tellers, the site of a village built within and around the enclosure of a castle. The lord of the castle, being fond of fish, determined to make a fish-pond, and as the spot selected for the excavation was covered by the cabins of his poorest tenants, he ordered all the occupants to be turned out forthwith, an order at once carried out "wid process-sarvers, an' bailiffs, an' consthables, an' sogers, an' polis, an' the people all shtandin' 'round." One of the evicted knelt on the ground and cursed the chief with "all the seed, breed and gineration av 'im," and prayed "that the throut-pond 'ud be the death av 'im." The prayer was speedily answered, for no sooner was the water turned into the newly-made pond, than an overflow resulted; the valley was filled; the waves climbed the walls of the castle, nor ceased to rise till they had swept the chief from the highest tower, where "he was down an his hard-hearted knees, sayin' his baids as fast as he cud, an' bawlin' at all the saints aither to bring him a boat or taiche him how to swim quick." Regard for the unfortunate tenants, however, prevented any interference by the saints thus vigorously and practically supplicated, so the chief was drowned and went, as the story-teller concluded, to a locality where he "naded more wather than he'd left behind him, an' had the comp'ny av a shwarm av other landlords that turned out the poor to shtarve."

The bodies of the fairies are not composed of flesh and bones, but of an ethereal substance, the nature of which is not determined. "Ye can see thimselves as plain as the nose on yer face, an' can see through thim like it was a mist." They have the power of vanishing from human sight when they please, and the fact that the air is sometimes full of them inspires the respect entertained for them by the peasantry. Sometimes they are heard without being seen, and when they travel through the air, as they often do, are known by a humming noise similar to that made by a swarm of bees. Whether or not they have wings is uncertain. Barney Murphy, of Kerry, thought they had; for several seen by him a number of years ago seemed to have long, semi-transparent pinions, "like thim that grows on a dhraggin-fly." Barney's neighbors, however, contradicted him by stoutly denying the good people the attribute of wings, and intimated that at the time Barney saw the fairies he was too drunk to distinguish a pair of wings from a pair of legs, so this branch of the subject must remain in doubt.

With regard to their dress, the testimony is undisputed. Young lady fairies wear pure white robes and usually allow their hair to flow loosely over their shoulders; while fairy matrons bind up their tresses in a coil on the top or back of the head, also surrounding the temples with a golden band. Young gentlemen elves wear green jackets, with white breeches and stockings; and when a fairy of either sex has need of a cap or head-covering, the flower of the fox-glove is brought into requisition.

Male fairies are perfect in all military exercises, for, like the other inhabitants of Ireland, fairies are divided into factions, the objects of contention not, in most cases, being definitely known. In Kerry, a number of years ago, there was a great battle among the fairies, one party inhabiting a rath or sepulchral mound, the other an unused and lonely graveyard. Paddy O'Donohue was the sole witness of this encounter, the narrative being in his own words.

"I was lyin' be the road, bein' on me way home an' tired wid the walkin'. A bright moon was out that night, an' I heard a noise like a million av sogers, thrampin' on the road, so I riz me an' looked, an' the way was full av little men, the length o' me hand, wid grane coats on, an' all in rows like wan o' the ridgmints; aitch wid a pike on his showldher an' a shield on his arrum. Wan was in front, beway he was the ginral, walkin' wid his chin up as proud as a paycock. Jagers, but I was skairt an' prayed fasther than iver I did in me life, for it was too clost to me entirely they wor for comfort or convaynience aither. But they all went by, sorra the wan o' thim turnin' his head to raygard me at all, Glory be to God for that same; so they left me. Afther they were clane gone by, I had curosity for to see phat they were afther, so I folly'd thim, a good bit aff, an' ready to jump an' run like a hare at the laste noise, for I was afeared if they caught me at it, they'd make a pig o' me at wanst or change me into a baste complately. They marched into the field bechuxt the graveyard an' the rath, an' there was another army there wid red coats, from the graveyard, an' the two armies had the biggest fight ye iver seen, the granes agin the reds. Afther lookin' on a bit, I got axcited, for the granes were batin' the reds like blazes, an' I up an' give a whilloo an' called out, 'At 'em agin! Don't lave wan o' the blaggards!' An' wid that word, the sight left me eyes an' I remimber no more till mornin', an' there was I, layin' on the road where I seen thim, as shtiff as a crutch."

The homes of the fairies are commonly in raths, tumuli of the pagan days of Ireland, and, on this account, raths are much dreaded, and after sundown are avoided by the peasantry. Attempts have been made to remove some of these raths, but the unwillingness of the peasants to engage in the work, no matter what inducements may be offered in compensation, has generally resulted in the abandonment of the undertaking. On one of the islands in the Upper Lake of Killarney there is a rath, and the proprietor, finding it occupied too much ground, resolved to have it levelled to increase the arable surface of the field. The work was begun, but one morning, in the early dawn, as the laborers were crossing the lake on their way to the island, they saw a procession of about two hundred persons, habited like monks, leave the island and proceed to the mainland, followed, as the workmen thought, by a long line of small, shining figures. The phenomenon was perhaps genuine, for the mirage is by no means an uncommon appearance in some parts of Ireland, but work on the rath was at once indefinitely postponed. Besides raths, old castles, deserted graveyards, ruined churches, secluded glens in the mountains, springs, lakes, and caves all are the homes and resorts of fairies, as is very well known on the west coast.

The better class of fairies are fond of human society and often act as guardians to those they love. In parts of Donegal and Galway they are believed to receive the souls of the dying and escort them to the gates of heaven, not, however, being allowed to enter with them. On this account, fairies love graves and graveyards, having often been seen walking to and fro among the grassy mounds. There are, indeed, some accounts of faction fights among the fairy bands at or shortly after a funeral, the question in dispute being whether the soul of the departed belonged to one or the other faction.

The amusements of the fairies consist of music, dancing, and ball-playing. In music their skill exceeds that of men, while their dancing is perfect, the only drawback being the fact that it blights the grass, "fairy-rings" of dead grass, apparently caused by a peculiar fungous growth, being common in Ireland. Although their musical instruments are few, the fairies use these few with wonderful skill. Near Colooney, in Sligo, there is a "knowlageable woman," whose grandmother's aunt once witnessed a fairy ball, the music for which was furnished by an orchestra which the management had no doubt been at great pains and expense to secure and instruct.

"It was the cutest sight alive. There was a place for thim to shtand on, an' a wondherful big fiddle av the size ye cud slape in it, that was played be a monsthrous frog, an' two little fiddles, that two kittens fiddled on, an' two big drums, baten be cats, an' two trumpets, played be fat pigs. All round the fairies were dancin' like angels, the fireflies givin' thim light to see by, an' the moonbames shinin' on the lake, for it was be the shore it was, an' if ye don't belave it, the glen's still there, that they call the fairy glen to this blessed day."

The fairies do much singing, seldom, however, save in chorus, and their songs were formerly more frequently heard than at present. Even now a belated peasant, who has been at a wake, or is coming home from a fair, in passing a rath will sometimes hear the soft strains of their voices in the distance, and will hurry away lest they discover his presence and be angry at the intrusion on their privacy. When in unusually good spirits they will sometimes admit a mortal to their revels, but if he speaks, the scene at once vanishes, he becomes insensible, and generally finds himself by the roadside the next morning, "wid that degray av pains in his arrums an' legs an' back, that if sixteen thousand divils were afther him, he cudn't stir a toe to save the sowl av him, that's phat the fairies do be pinchin' an' punchin' him for comin' on them an' shpakin' out loud."

Kindly disposed fairies often take great pleasure in assisting those who treat them with proper respect, and as the favors always take a practical form, there is sometimes a business value in the show of reverence for them. There was Barney Noonan, of the County Leitrim, for instance, "An' sorra a betther boy was in the county than Barney. He'd work as reg'lar as a pump, an' liked a bit av divarshun as well as annybody when he'd time for it, that wasn't aften, to be sure, but small blame to him, for he wasn't rich be no manner o' manes. He'd a power av ragârd av the good people, an' when he wint be the rath beyant his field, he'd pull aff his caubeen an' take the dudheen out av his mouth, as p'lite as a dancin' masther, an' say, 'God save ye, ladies an' gintlemen,' that the good people always heard though they niver showed thimselves to him. He'd a bit o' bog, that the hay was on, an' afther cuttin' it, he left it for to dhry, an' the sun come out beautiful an' in a day or so the hay was as dhry as powdher an' ready to put away.

"So Barney was goin' to put it up, but, it bein' the day av the fair, he thought he'd take the calf an' sell it, an' so he did, an' comin' up wid the boys, he stayed over his time, bein' hindhered wid dhrinkin' an' dancin' an' palaverin' at the gurls, so it was afther dark when he got home an' the night as black as a crow, the clouds gatherin' on the tops av the mountains like avil sper'ts an' crapin' down into the glens like disthroyin' angels, an' the wind howlin' like tin thousand Banshees, but Barney didn't mind it all wan copper, bein' glorified wid the dhrink he'd had. So the hay niver enthered the head av him, but in he wint an' tumbled in bed an' was shnorin' like a horse in two minnits, for he was a bach'ler, God bless him, an' had no wife to gosther him an' ax him where he'd been, an' phat he'd been at, an' make him tell a hunderd lies about not gettin' home afore. So it came on to thunder an' lighten like as all the avil daymons in the univarse were fightin' wid cannons in the shky, an' by an' by there was a clap loud enough to shplit yer skull an' Barney woke up.

"'Tattheration to me,' says he to himself, 'it's goin' for to rain an' me hay on the ground. Phat 'll I do?' says he.

"So he rowled over on the bed an' looked out av a crack for to see if it was ralely rainin'. An' there was the biggest crowd he iver seen av little men an' wimmin. They'd built a row o' fires from the cow-house to the bog an' were comin' in a shtring like the cows goin' home, aitch wan wid his two arrums full o' hay. Some were in the cow-house, resayvin' the hay; some were in the field, rakin' the hay together; an' some were shtandin' wid their hands in their pockets beways they were the bosses, tellin' the rest for to make haste. An' so they did, for every wan run like he was afther goin' for the docther, an' brought a load an' hurried back for more.

"Barney looked through the crack at thim a crossin' himself ivery minnit wid admiration for the shpeed they had. 'God be good to me,' says he to himself, ''tis not ivery gossoon in Leitrim that's got haymakers like thim,' only he never spake a word out loud, for he knewn very well the good people 'ud n't like it. So they brought in all the hay an' put it in the house an' thin let the fires go out an' made another big fire in front o' the dure, an' begun to dance round it wid the swatest music Barney iver heard.

"Now be this time he'd got up an' feelin' aisey in his mind about the hay, begun to be very merry. He looked on through the dure at thim dancin', an' by an' by they brought out a jug wid little tumblers and begun to drink summat that they poured out o' the jug. If Barney had the sense av a herrin', he'd a kept shtill an' let thim dhrink their fill widout openin' the big mouth av him, bein' that he was as full as a goose himself an' naded no more; but when he seen the jug an' the tumblers an' the fairies drinkin' away wid all their mights, he got mad an' bellered out like a bull, 'Arra-a-a-h now, ye little attomies, is it dhrinkin' ye are, an' never givin' a sup to a thirsty mortial that always thrates yez as well as he knows how,' and immejitly the fairies, an' the fire, an' the jug all wint out av his sight, an' he to bed agin in a timper. While he was layin' there, he thought he heard talkin' an' a cugger-mugger goin' on, but when he peeped out agin, sorra a thing did he see but the black night an' the rain comin' down an' aitch dhrop the full av a wather-noggin. So he wint to slape, continted that the hay was in, but not plazed that the good people 'ud be pigs entirely, to be afther dhrinkin' undher his eyes an' not offer him a taste, no, not so much as a shmell at the jug.

"In the mornin' up he gets an' out for to look at the hay an' see if the fairies put it in right, for he says, 'It's a job they're not used to.' So he looked in the cow-house an' thought the eyes 'ud lave him when there wasn't a shtraw in the house at all. 'Holy Moses,' says he, 'phat have they done wid it?' an' he couldn't consave phat had gone wid the hay. So he looked in the field an' it was all there; bad luck to the bit av it had the fairies left in the house at all, but when he shouted at thim, they got tarin' mad an' took all the hay back agin to the bog, puttin' every shtraw where Barney laid it, an' it was as wet as a drownded cat. But it was a lesson to him he niver forgot, an' I go bail that the next time the fairies help him in wid his hay he'll kape shtill an' let thim dhrink thimselves to death if they plaze widout sayin' a word."

The round towers of Ireland are, in fact, a portion of a vast system of towers of identical construction, and by following the geographical course of these structures, the march of fire worship from the East may be determined with some accuracy. Pass from Ireland to Brittany, and there, in the mountainous or hilly districts, several towers are found exactly like those of Ireland. In the north of Spain several remain; in Portugal, one; in the south of Spain they are numerous. Opposite the Spanish coast, in the north of Africa, there are also many, being found in various places in Morocco, Algeria, Tunis, and Tripoli. In Sardinia, several hundred are still standing; and written testimony to the purpose for which they were erected is abundant among the Sardinian records. In Minorca, among many others, is the famous Tower of Allaior. The mountain districts of south Italy have numbers of them, and they are also found on several hills in Sicily. Malta has the Giant's Tower, in every particular of appearance and construction identical with the Tower of Cashel in Ireland. Cyprus has them, and they still remain in Candia and on the coast of Asia Minor. In Palestine none have yet been found, or at least have not been recorded by travellers or surveyors; a fact that may, perhaps, be fully accounted for by the zeal of the Hebrews in destroying every vestige of Canaanitish idolatry; but, with some probability, it is conjectured that the "high places" broken down may have been towers of the sun, for the Canaanites were fire worshippers, and the name Baal is found alike in Palestine and Ireland.

In Syria, north of Palestine, they begin again; are found in Armenia, and in the Caucasus, so numerously as to crown almost every hill-top. East of the Caspian Sea they abound, and towards the centre of Asia as far as records of exploration and travel present reliable accounts of the country. Returning to the shores of the Mediterranean, their existence on the northern coast of Africa has been mentioned. In Arabia and on the Egyptian shore of the Red Sea, they stand in considerable numbers, are found in Persia, Afghanistan, Beloochistan, India, Ceylon, and Sumatra, in some places being still used, it is said, for fire worship.

Throughout this vast extent of territory there is no material difference in the shape, appearance, or construction of the round tower. In Sumatra and Java, as in Ireland, the door is elevated, the building divided into stories; the walls are constructed of many sided hewn stones, the upper story is lighted by four windows looking to the cardinal points, the cornice has the same kind of zigzag ornamentation, and the roof is constructed in the same manner, of overlapping stones. Even the names are nearly the same, for in India and Ireland these buildings are Fire-Towers, Fire-Circles, or Sun-Houses.

Another bit of circumstantial evidence going to prove that the round towers of Ireland were erected by a people having the same religion and similar religious observances as the natives of India is seen in the legends concerning the Indian towers. In India, the local traditions tell how each of these towers was built in one night by some notable character who was afterwards buried in it. In Ireland, the same legend is found; to the present day, the peasants of the neighborhood telling with gusto the story of the tower being first seen in the early morning, rising toward the sky on a spot where, the evening before, no preparations for building had been visible.

The Tower Tulloherin, for instance, was built in one night by a monk who came to the neighborhood as a missionary. Finding the people inhospitable, and unable to obtain lodging for the night, he determined to remain, believing there could not be found in Ireland a locality more in need of missionary work. So, on the evening of his arrival, he began to build, and by morning the tower was finished, and he took up his abode in it, preaching from its entrance to the crowds attracted by the fame of the miracle. The story of the Tower of Aghagower is similar, save in one particular, the saint in this case being aided by angels. Kilmackduagh was built in one night by angels without human assistance, the work being done at the solicitation of a saint who watched and prayed while the angels toiled.

Ballygaddy has a history somewhat less miraculous, the local peasant historian attributing its origin to a "giont" of the neighborhood. Having received a belligerent message from another "giont," he took a stand on Ballygaddy hill to watch for the coming of his antagonist, proposing, as the humble chronicler stated, "to bate the head aff the braggin' vagabone if he said as much as Boo." For seven days and nights he stood upon the hill, and at the end of that time, as may readily be believed, "his legs wor that tired he thought they'd dhrop aff him." To relieve those valuable members he put up the tower as a support to lean on. The bellicose gigantic party who proposed the encounter finally came to time, and lovers of antiquities will be glad to learn that the tower-building giant "didn't lave a whole bone in the blaggârd's ugly carkidge." After the battle, the victor "shtarted for to kick the tower down," but, upon second thought, concluded to put the roof on it and "lave it for a wondher to thim little mortials that come afther him," for which consideration all honor to his memory.

The Tower Ardpatrick was, according to tradition, built under the auspices of Ireland's great saint, while the high tower on the Rock of Cashel is attributed, by the same authority, to Cormac Macarthy, king and archbishop of Cashel, who, being once engaged in hostilities with a neighboring potentate, needed a watch-tower, so summoned all his people, built the tower in one night, and, at sunrise, was able by its help to ascertain the location of the opposing army and so give it an overwhelming defeat. The Glendalough Tower was built by a demon at the command of Saint Kevin. This saint had conspicuously routed Satan on a previous occasion; so the arch-fiend and all the well-informed of his subjects kept at a safe distance from Glendalough, not caring to take any risks with so doughty a spiritual champion as Saint Kevin had proved himself to be in more than one encounter.

"But there was wan snakin' vagabone av a divil that come from furrin parts an' hadn't heard the news about the saint, and the blessed saint caught him wan avenin' an' set him to work to build that tower. So the black rogue wint at it as hard as he knew how, an' was workin' away wid all the hands he had, as busy as a barmaid at a fair, thinkin' that afore sunrise he'd have it so high it 'ud fall down be itself an' do the blessed saint not a ha'porth av good. But afther batin' owld Satan himself, Saint Kevin wasn't to be deludhered be wan av his undershtrappers, an' was watchin' wid his two eyes every minnit o' the time, so whin the divil had the tower high enough, he threw his bishop's cap at it, an' it become shtone an' made the roof, so the omadhawn divil was baten at his own game."

The round tower is not without a touch of romance, one of the most notable structures, Monaster-Boice, having been built by a woman under peculiar circumstances. According to the legend, she was young, beautiful, and good, but though she ought to have been happy also, she was not, being persecuted by the attentions of a suitor chieftain, whose reputation must have been far from irreproachable, since he was characterized by the narrator of the story either as an "outprobrious ruffin," or "a sootherin', deludherin', murtherin' villin." Loving another chief who was a "gintleman entirely," and determined to escape from the obnoxious attentions of the "ruffin" already mentioned, the lady, having learned that her disagreeable suitor had resolved to carry her off, employed two men to aid her the night before the proposed abduction, and, before morning, built the tower and took up her abode in the topmost chamber. In due season the chieftain came "wid a gang av thaves," but, disappointed in his "endayvor fur to stale away her varchew," besieged the tower. Having taken the precaution to provide a good supply of heavy stones, the lady pelted her persecutors vigorously, "crackin' their haythen shkulls the same as they wor egg-shells." Her heroism was rewarded by her deliverance, for her lover, hearing of her desperate situation, came to her relief and attacked the besiegers, so that "wid the lady flingin' shtones at the front o' them, an' the other fellys beltin' 'em behind, they got disconsarted as not knowin' phat to do next, an' so they up's an' runs like as tin thousand divils wor parshooin' afther thim. So she was saved an' brought down, an' was married to the boy av her heart the next Sunday, Glory be to God, an' that's the way the tower come to be built, an' shows that thim that thries to marry a lady agin her will always comes to grief, fur av she cant bate thim wid her tongue she can some other way, fur a woman can always get phat she's afther, an' bad luck to the lie that's in that."

Mrs. O'Malley thus beheld herself, at a single blow, deprived of husband and four sons. For a time she was wildly demented, but the violence passed away, and as her clouded brain became calm, it was occupied by one idea, to the exclusion of all others,--prayer for the repose of her dead. The body of the Sergeant was buried near Maume, but O'Malley and his three sons were buried together under the cairn in a long disused churchyard through which the road passed, a churchyard like thousands more in Ireland, where the grave-stones are hidden by the nettles and weeds. Thither, with a love stronger than death, goes the poor old woman every day, and, untiring in her devotion, spends her life reciting the prayers for the dead.

"He was afther lookin' for wan nigh a year, fur he wanted to get married an' hadn't anny money, so he thought the aisiest was to ketch a Luricawne. So he was lookin' an' watchin' an' the fellys makin' fun av him all the time. Wan night he was comin' back afore day from a wake he'd been at, an' on the way home he laid undher the hidge an' shlept awhile, thin riz an' walked on. So as he was walkin', he seen a Luricawne in the grass be the road a-mendin' his brogues. So he shlipped up an' got him fast enough, an' thin made him tell him where was his goold. The Luricawne tuk him to nigh the place in the break o' the hills an' was goin' fur to show him, when all at wanst Mike heard the most outprobrious scraich over the head av him that 'ud make the hairs av ye shtand up like a mad cat's tail.

"'The saints defind me,' says he, 'phat's that?' an' he looked up from the Luricawne that he was carryin' in his arrums. That minnit the little attomy wint out av his sight, fur he looked away from it an' it was gone, but he heard it laugh when it wint an' he niver got the goold but died poor, as me father knows, an' he a boy when it happened."

Although the Leprechawns are skilful in evading curious eyes, and, when taken, are shrewd in escaping from their captors, their tricks are sometimes all in vain, and after resorting to every device in their power, they are occasionally compelled to yield up their hidden stores, one instance of which was narrated by a Galway peasant.

"It was Paddy Donnelly av Connemara. He was always hard at work as far as anny wan seen, an' bad luck to the day he'd miss, barrin' Sundays. When all 'ud go to the fair, sorra a fut he'd shtir to go near it, no more did a dhrop av dhrink crass his lips. When they'd ax him why he didn't take divarshun, he'd laugh an' tell thim his field was divarshun enough fur him, an' by an' by he got rich, so they knewn that when they were at the fair or wakes or shports, it was lookin' fur a Leprechawn he was an' not workin', an' he got wan too, fur how else cud he get rich at all."

And so it must have been, in spite of the denials of Paddy Donnelly, though, to do him justice, he stoutly affirmed that his small property was acquired by industry, economy, and temperance. But according to the opinions of his neighbors, "bad scran to him 't was as greedy as a pig he was, fur he knewn where the goold was, an' wanted it all fur himself, an' so lied about it like the Leprechawns, that's known to be the biggest liars in the world."

The Leprechawn is an old bachelor elf who successfully resists all efforts of scheming fairy mammas to marry him to young and beautiful fairies, persisting in single blessedness even in exile from his kind, being driven off as a punishment for his heterodoxy on matrimonial subjects. This is one explanation of the fact that Leprechawns are always seen alone, though other authorities make the Leprechawn solitary by preference, he having learned the hollowness of fairy friendship and the deceitfulness of fairy femininity, and left the society of his kind in disgust at its lack of sincerity.

It must be admitted that the latter explanation seems the more reasonable, since whenever the Leprechawn has been captured and forced to engage in conversation with his captor he displayed conversational powers that showed an ability to please, and as woman kind, even among fairy circles, are, according to an Irish proverb, "aisily caught be an oily tongue," the presumption is against the expulsion of the Leprechawn and in favor of his voluntary retirement.

However this may be, one thing is certain to the minds of all wise women and fairy-men, that he is the "thrickiest little divil that iver wore a brogue," whereof abundant proof is given. There was Tim O'Donovan, of Kerry, who captured a Leprechawn and forced him to disclose the spot where the "pot o' goold" was concealed. Tim was going to make the little rogue dig up the money for him, but, on the Leprechawn advancing the plea that he had no spade, released him, marking the spot by driving a stick into the ground and placing his hat on it. Returning the next morning with a spade, the spot pointed out by the "little ottomy av a desaver" being in the centre of a large bog, he found, to his unutterable disgust, that the Leprechawn was too smart for him, for in every direction innumerable sticks rose out of the bog, each bearing aloft an old "caubeen" so closely resembling his own that poor Tim, after long search, was forced to admit himself baffled and give up the gold that, on the evening before, had been fairly within his grasp, if "he'd only had the brains in his shkull to make the Leprechawn dig it for him, shpade or no shpade."

Even when caught, therefore, the captor must outwit the captive, and the wily little rascal, having a thousand devices, generally gets away without giving up a penny, and sometimes succeeds in bringing the eager fortune-hunter to grief, a notable instance of which was the case of Dennis O'Bryan, of Tipperary, as narrated by an old woman of Crusheen.

"It's well beknownst that the Leprechawn has a purse that's got the charmed shillin'. Only wan shillin', but the wondher av the purse is this: No matther how often ye take out a shillin' from it, the purse is niver empty at all, but whin ye put yer finger in agin, ye always find wan there, fur the purse fills up when ye take wan from it, so ye may shtand all day countin' out the shillin's an' they comin', that's a thrick av the good peoples an' be magic.

"Now Dinnis was a young blaggârd that was always afther peepin' about undher the hidge fur to ketch a Leprechawn, though they do say that thim that doesn't sarch afther thim sees thim oftener than thim that does, but Dinnis made his mind up that if there was wan in the counthry, he'd have him, fur he hated work worse than sin, an' did be settin' in a shebeen day in an' out till you'd think he'd grow on the sate. So wan day he was comin' home, an' he seen something red over in the corner o' the field, an' in he goes, as quiet as a mouse, an' up on the Leprechawn an' grips him be the collar an' down's him on the ground.

"'Arrah, now, ye ugly little vagabone,' says he, 'I've got ye at last. Now give up yer goold, or by jakers I'll choke the life out av yer pin-squazin' carkidge, ye owld cobbler, ye,' says he, shakin' him fit to make his head dhrop aff.

"It's very well beknownst that in thim owld days there were gionts in plinty hereabouts, but they didn't make the Causeway at all, for that's a work o' nacher, axceptin' the Gray Man's Path, that I'm goin' to tell ye av. But ivery wan knows that there were gionts, bekase if there wasn't, how cud we know o' thim at all, but wan thing's sartain, they were just like us, axceptin' in the matther o' size, for wan ov thim 'ud make a dozen like the men that live now.

"Among the gionts that lived about the Causeway there was wan, a young giont named Finn O'Goolighan, that was the biggest av his kind, an' none o' thim cud hide in a kish. So Finn, for the size av him, was a livin' terror. His little finger was the size av yer Anner's arrum, an' his wrist as big as yer leg, an' so he wint, bigger an' bigger. Whin he walked he carried an oak-tree for a shtick, ye cud crawl into wan av his shoes, an' his caubeen 'ud cover a boat. But he was a good-humored young felly wid a laugh that 'ud deefen ye, an' a plazin' word for all he met, so as if ye run acrass him in the road, he'd give ye 'good morrow kindly,' so as ye'd feel the betther av it all day. He'd work an' he'd play an' do aither wid all the might that was in him. Av a week day you'd see him in the field or on the shore from sun to sun as busy as a hen wid a dozen chicks; an' av a fair-day or av a Sunday, there he'd be, palatherin' at the girls, an' dancin' jigs that he done wid extrame nateness, or havin' a bout wid a shtick on some other felly's head, an' indade, at that he was so clever that it was a delight for to see him, for he'd crack a giont's shkull that was as hard as a pot wid wan blow an' all the pleasure in life. So he got to be four or five an' twinty an' not his betther in the County Antrim.

"Wan fine day, his father, Bryan O'Goolighan, that was as big a giont as himself, says to him, says he, 'Finn, me Laddybuck, I'm thinkin' ye'll want to be gettin' marr'd.'

At a narrow turn in the valley and immediately over the spot where the brook has its origin in a spring bursting out of a crevice in the rock and falling into a circular well partly scooped out, partly built up for the reception of the sparkling water, a cliff rises perpendicularly to the height of fifty feet, surmounted, after a break in the strata, by another, perhaps twenty feet higher, the upper portion being curiously wrought by nature's chisel into the shape of a human countenance. The forehead is shelving, the eyebrows heavy and menacing; the nose large and hooked like the beak of a hawk; the upper lip short, the chin prominent and pointed, while a thick growth of ferns in the shelter of the crag forming the nose gives the impression of a small mustache and goatee. Above the forehead a mass of tangled undergrowth and ferns bears a strong resemblance to an Oriental turban. An eye is plainly indicated by a bit of light-colored stone, and altogether the face has a sinister leer, that, in an ignorant age, might easily inspire the fears of a superstitious people.

On a level with the chin and to the right of the face is the mouth of a cave, reached by a path up the hillside, rude steps in the rock rendering easier the steep ascent. The cave can be entered only by stooping, but inside a room nearly seven feet high and about twelve feet square presents itself. Undoubtedly the cave was once the abode of an anchorite, for on each side of the entrance a Latin cross is deeply carved in the rock, while within, at the further side, and opposite the door, a block of stone four feet high was left for an altar. Above it, a shrine is hollowed out of the stone wall, and over the cavity is another cross, surmounted by the mystic I. H. S.

The legend of the cave was told by an old "wise woman" of the neighborhood with a minuteness of detail that rendered the narrative more tedious than graphic. A devout believer in the truth of her own story, she told it with wonderful earnestness, combining fluency of speech with the intonations of oratory in such a way as to render the legend as interesting as a dramatic recitation.

"'T is the cave av the saint, but phat saint I'm not rightly sartain. Some say it was Saint Patrick himself, but 't is I don't belave that same. More say it was the blessed Saint Kevin, him that done owld King O'Toole out av his land in the bargain he made fur curin' his goose, but that's not thrue aither, an' it's my consate they're right that say it was Saint Tigernach, the same that built the big Abbey av Clones in Monaghan. His Riverince, Father Murphy, says that same, an' sorra a wan has a chance av knowin' betther than him.

"An' the big head on the rock there is the divil's face that the saint made him put there, the time the blessed man was too shmart fur him whin the Avil Wan thried to do him.

"A quare owld shtory it is, an' the quol'ty that come down here on the coast laugh if it's towld thim, an' say it's a t'underin' big lie that's in it, bekase they don't undhershtand it, but if men belaved nothin' they didn't undhershtand, it's a short craydo they'd have. But I was afther tellin', Saint Tigernach lived in the cave, it bein' him an' no other; morebetoken, he was a good man an' shrewder than a fox. He made the cave fur himself an' lived there, an' ivery day he'd say tin thousand paters, an' five thousand aves, an' a thousand craydos, an' thin go out among the poor. There wasn't manny poor thin in Ireland, Glory be to God, fur the times was betther thin, but phat there was looked up to the saint, fur he was as good as a cupboard to thim, an' whin he begged fur the poor, sorra a man 'ud get from him till he'd given him a copper or more, fur he'd shtick like a consthable to ye till he'd get his money. An' all that were parshecuted, an' the hungry, an' naked, and God's poor, wint to the saint like a child to its mother an' towld him the whole o' their heart.

"While the blessed saint lived here, over acrass the hill an' beyant the peat-bog there was a hedger an' ditcher named O'Connor. He was only a poor laborin' man, an' the owld woman helped him, while his girl, be the name o' Kathleen, tinded the house, fur I must tell ye, they kept a boord in the corner beways av a bar an' a jug wid potheen that they sowld to thim that passed, fur it was afore the days av the gaugers, bad cess to thim, an' ivery man dhrunk phat he plazed widout payin' a pinny to the govermint. So O'Connor made the potheen himself an' Kathleen sowld it to the turf-cutters, an' mighty little did they buy, bekase they'd no money. She was a fine girl, wid a pair av eyes that 'ud dint the hearts av owld an' young, an' wid a dacint gown fur the week an' a clane wan fur the Sunday, an' just such a girl as 'ud make an owld felly feel himself young agin. Sorra the taste av divilmint was there in the girl at all, fur she was good as the sunshine in winther an' as innycent as a shpring lamb, an' wint to church an' did her jooty reglar.

"She was afther fallin' in love wid a young felly that done ditchin' an' they were to be marr'd whin he got his house done an' his father gev him a cow. He wasn't rich be no manes, but as fur feelin' poverty, he never dhreamt o' such a thing, fur he'd the love o' Kathleen an' thought it a forchune.

"In thim times the castle at the foot o' the hill was kept be a lord, that wid roomytisms an' panes in his jints was laid on his bed all the time, and the son av him, Lord Robert, was the worst man to be runnin' afther girls iver seen in the County Clare. He was the dandy among thim an' broke the hearts o' thim right an' lift like he was shnappin' twigs undher his feet. Manny a wan he desaved an' let go to the dogs, as they did at wanst, fur whin the divil gets his foot on a woman's neck, she niver lifts her head agin.

"Wan day, Lord Robert's father's roomytism got the betther av him an' laid him out, an' they gev him an iligant wake an' berryin', an' while they were at the grave Lord Robert looked up an' seen Kathleen shtandin' among the people an' wondhered who she was. So he come into the eshtate an' got a stable full av horses an' dogs, an' did a power o' huntin', an' as he was a sojer, he'd a shwarm av throopers at the cassel, all the like av himself. But not long afther the berryin', Lord Robert was huntin' in the hills, an' he come down towards the bog an' seen O'Connor's cabin, an' says to his man 'Bedad, I wondher if they've a dhrop to shpare here, I'm mortial dhry.' So in they wint, an' axed, an' got thim their dhrink, an' thin he set the wicked eyes av him on the girl an' at wanst remimbered her.

"'It's a mighty fine girl ye are,' says he to Kathleen thin, an' fit fur the house av a prince.'

"'None o' yer deludherin' talk to me, Sorr,' says Kathleen to him. 'I know ye, an' it's no good I know av ye,' says she to him. 'Twas the good girl she was an' as firm as a landlord in a bad year when she thought there was anny avil intinded.

"So he wint away that time an' come agin an' agin when he was huntin' an' always had some impidince to say at her. She towld her parrents av it, an' though they didn't like it at all, they wasn't afeared fur the girl, an' he'd spind more in wan dhrinkin' than they'd take in in a week, so they were not sorry to see him come, but ivery time he come he wint away more detarmined to have the girl, an' whin he found he cudn't get her be fair manes he shwore he'd do it be foul. So wanst, whin she'd been cowlder to him than common an' wouldn't have a prisint he brought her, he says to her, 'Begob, I'll bring ye to terms. If ye won't accept me prisints, I'll make ye bend yer will widout prisints,' an' he wint away. She got frighted, an' whin she saw Tim Maccarty, she towld him av Lord Robert an' phat he said. Well, it made Tim mighty mad. 'Tatther an' agers,' says he, 'be the powers, I'll break every bone in his body if he lays a finger on yer showldher; but, fur all that, whin Tim got to thinkin', he got skairt av Kathleen.

"'Sure,' says he to himself, 'ain't wimmin like glass jugs, that'll break wid the laste touch? I'll marry her immejitly an' take out av Clare into Kerry,' says he, 'an' let him dare to come afther her there,' says he, for he knewn that if Lord Robert came into the Kerry mountains, the boys 'ud crack his shkull wid the same compuncshusness that they'd have to an egg shell. So he left aff the job an' convaynienced himself to go to Kathleen that night an' tell her his belafe.

"'Amn't I afeared fur ye, me darlin',' says he, 'and wouldn't I dhrownd me in the say if anny harm 'ud come to ye, so I think we'd betther be married at wanst.'

"So Kathleen consinted an' made a bundle av her Sunday gown, an' they shtarted fur the saint's cave, that bein' the nearest place they cud be marr'd at, an' bein' marr'd be him was like bein' marr'd be a priest.

"So they wint alang the road to where the foot-path laves it be the oak-tree, then up the path an' through the boreen to where Misther Dawson's black mare broke her leg jumpin' the hedge, an' whin they rached that shpot they heard a noise on the road behint thim an' stud be the hedge, peepin' through to have a look at it an' see phat it was. An' there was Lord Robert an' a dozen av his bad min, wid their waypons an' the armor on thim shinin' in the moonlight. It was ridin' to O'Connor's they were, an' whin Tim an' Kathleen set their eyes on thim, they seen they'd made a narrer eshcape.

"Howandiver, as soon as Lord Robert an' his min were out o' sight, they ran wid all their shpeed, an' lavin' the path where Dennis Murphy fell into the shtrame lasht winter comin' back from Blanigan's wake whin he'd had too much, they tuk the rise o' the hill, an' that was a mishtake. If they'd kep be the hedge an' 'round be the foot-bridge, then up the footway the other side o' the brook an' ferninst the mill, they'd have kep out o' sight, an' been safe enough; but as they were crassin' the hill, wan av Robert's min saw thim, fur it was afther the girl he was sure enough, an' whin he found from her father her an' Tim were gone, they rode aff here an' there sarchin' afther thim. Whin the sojer shpied thim on the top o' the hill, he blew his thrumpet, an' here come all the rest shtreelin' along on the run, round the hill as fast as their bastes 'ud take thim, fur they guessed where the two 'ud be goin'. An' Kathleen an' Tim come tumblin' down the shlope, an' bad luck to the minnit they'd to shpare whin they got into the cave before here was the whole gang, wid their horses puffin', an' their armors rattlin' like a pedler's tins.

"The saint was on a pile av shtraw in the corner, shnorin' away out av his blessed nose, fur it was as sound aslape as a pig he was, bein' tired entirely wid a big day's job, an' didn't wake up wid their comin' in. So Lord Robert an' his min left their horses below an' climbed up an' looked in, but cud see nothin' be razon av the darkness.

"'Arrah now,' says he, 'Kathleen, come along out o' that now, fur I've got ye safe an' sound.'

"They answered him niver a word, but he heard a noise that was the saint turnin' over on his bed bein' onaisey in his slape.

"'Come along out o' that,' he repaited; 'an' you, Tim Maccarty, if ye come out, ye may go back to yer ditchin', but if ye wait fur me to fetch ye, the crows 'ull be atin' ye at sunrise. Shtrike a light,' says he. So they did, an' looked in an' saw Tim an' Kathleen, wan on aitch side o' the althar, holdin' wid all their mights to the crass that was on it.

"'Dhrag thim out av it,' says Lord Robert, an' the min went in, but afore they come near thim, Saint Tigernach shtopped shnorin', bein' wakened wid the light an' jabberin', an' shtud up on the flure.

"'Howld on now,' says the blessed saint, 'phat's the matther here? Phat's all this murtherin' noise about?' says he.

"Lord Robert's min all dhrew back, for there was a power o' fear av the saint in the county, an' Lord Robert undhertuk to axplain that the girl was a sarvint av his that run away wid that thafe av a ditcher, but Saint Tigernach seen through the whole thrick at wanst.

"'Lave aff,' says he. 'Don't offer fur to thrape thim lies on me. Pack aff wid yer murtherers, or it's the curse ye'll get afore ye can count yer fingers,' an' wid that all the min went out, an' Lord Robert afther thim, an' all he cud say 'udn't pervail on the sojers to go back afther the girl.

Not far from Ballinahinch, a fishing village on Birterbuy Bay, in the County Galway, and in the most lonely valley of the neighborhood, there dwells one of these wise women who supplant the ancient witches. The hovel which shelters her bears every indication of wretched poverty; the floor is mud, the smoke escapes through a hole in the thatch in default of a chimney; the bed is a scanty heap of straw in the corner, and two rude shelves, bearing a small assortment of cracked jars and broken bottles, constitute Moll's stock in trade.

The misery of her household surroundings, however, furnished to the minds of her patients no argument against the efficiency of her remedies, Moll being commonly believed to have "a power av goold," though no one had ever seen any portion thereof. But with all her reputed riches she had no fear of robbers, for "she could aisily do for thim did they but come as many as the shtraws in the thatch," and would-be robbers, no doubt understanding that fact, prudently consulted their own safety by staying away from the vicinity of her cabin.

"Owld Moll," as she was known, was a power in the parish, and her help was sought in many emergencies. Did a cow go dry, Moll knew the reason and might possibly remove the spell; if a baby fell ill, Moll had an explanation of its ailment, and could tell at a glance whether the little one was or was not affected by the evil eye of a secret enemy. If a pig was stolen, she was shrewd in her conjectures as to the direction its wrathful owner must take in the search. But her forte lay in bringing about love-matches. Many were the charms at her command for this purpose, and equally numerous the successes with which she was accredited. Some particulars of her doings in this direction were furnished by Jerry Magwire, a jolly car-man of Galway, who had himself been benefited by her services.