Our next stage was Stranorlar, and we had, amongst others, as a companion the English tourist already mentioned, who stuck close to Mullan as too valuable and inexpensive an acquisition to be lost sight of. The conveyance was one of Bianconni's long cars, which, although the ugliest and most uncomfortable of vehicles ever invented, made a fortune to the poor Italian whose name they bear, and opened the gates of the sacred college to his near relative. Truly these long cars, rattling over the rough and rut-worn roads of Ireland, accomplished marvels in their short day. They raised the poor homeless vendor of stucco images from the mire of the street to the mansion of the peer, and placed a Cardinal's hat on the head of his child.

Off we rattled at a good pace through a narrow street of low houses, and soon got into the open country. I was elevated to the box beside the driver, per special favour and the payment of a small gratuity in the shape of whip money. The day was fine, and the country looked beautiful. Before us lay the mountain chain of the Donegal Highlands. On the right were cultivated farms and homesteads, and away on the left, Lough Esk sparkled in the sunlight, and caught the shadows from the wooded banks on one side, and on another reflected the mountain outline which rose from its margin. A silver thread could be discerned in the distance, which nearer would be found to be a mountain torrent dashing over the rocks into the lake below. I enjoyed the drive, and . the gossip of the driver. Our tourist friend seemed to derive infinite pleasure from the prattle of Mullan. He seldom smiled, but he looked his satisfaction and thanks, and in spite of the jolting managed to do a little in the way of taking notes.

By degrees we got into a wild country. There were no pleasant homesteads to be seen, but bare heath and the towering mountains on either hand, as the team drawing the long car dashed down a little hill into the mountain gorge of Barnesmore. Through the Gap of Barnes we posted, the driver flogging his sweating horses, and Mullan narrating to the attentive tourist, deeds of blood which that dark gorge had witnessed at a not very remote period. As a police barracks had been recently built close by the Gap, I suppose there was a good deal of truth in the narrative; and when we got well into the mountain pass, I noticed his companion looking most uncomfortable. As the tale increased in tragic interest the tourist looked unutterable wretchedness, and taking advantage of a break in the recital, pointed with his hand to an object on the cliff far above our heads, and inquired what it was. Whether he supposed he really saw a highwayman perched on a ledge of the cliff, as a look-out for his murderous associates, I cannot say ; but he looked at the object with a gaze of all-absorbing interest.

66

Mullan looked long in the same direction, and at length replied, Why yes; I see. That's an eagle, sir."

"An eagle! Bless me, let me have a better look driver.

car; I say."

Stop the

"I can't, your honor, till we get up a bit, an' then they'll rest." In a few minutes we had topped an elevation steeper than the regular gradient, which is steep enough in all truth; and here the horses were allowed to rest, while the tourist made a note, and nearer inspection of the eagle.

Mullan employed his time in descanting on the numbers and size

A CONVERTED GUAGER.

of the Irish eagle, and how in certain seasons dozens of them might be seen sitting on the ledges of the rocks in the Gap, picking their feathers like barn-door fowl.

"And you can see that ould cock do the same, this present minute, your honor," put in the driver, pointing with a chuckle to the object which the tourist was doing his best to anatomise.

"I never could have

"Yes, I think I do see it," said the tourist. thought it. Eagles too; and so common and tame."

The object moved off leisurely, as the tourist spoke and put on his glasses for another inspection.

"I declare it prefers walking to flying. Well that is strange. Do Irish eagles generally prefer walking to flying?"

This to my friend Mullan.

"Yes, especially after a feed of grass; you see that one has been nibbling there for the last half-hour," and a knowing wink was exchanged between the driver and Mullan.

"Well, that is singular. Strange; very. Let me make a note of that fact before you move on driver," a loud crack of the long coach whip announcing the jarvy's intention of starting.

"Well, I'm blessed, if that dos'nt beat Banagher hollow. He takes an ould goat for an eagle, and swallows the gammoning clean."

A roar of laughter from the "fares" rewarded the driver for this sally, which disconcerted our tourist greatly. He looked offended, pulled his travelling cap down on his brows, plucked up his cravat over his mouth, and tucked the ample folds of his knee rugs close around him, as much as to say he wished to keep as much to his respectable self as possible. My loquacious friend saw the driver had spoilt his sport, and he feared that the tourist would discredit all his romances on account of the eagle. They exchanged not a syllable for the remainder of the journey, which we broke at Stranorlar. No doubt the English tourist would proceed to Londonderry the same night, leave that city next morning without visiting its historic monuments, post to the Giant's Causeway from Portrush, and manage to be in Belfast in time for the Fleetwood steamer the same, or at most the following, night, after having accomplished the Irish tour in a fortnight.

I give my recollections of this journey, to illustrate what was so common then in Ireland. That country was inundated several seasons by English tourists, who went away under the impression that they had seen all that could be seen, and learnt all that could be learned of Ireland, after a flying journey from Cape Clear to the Giant's Causeway of ten days to a fortnight; and the eagle incident is only one of many instances in which I have seen the gaping credulity of these tourists turned to account for the amusement of a party of more intelligent and less gullible travellers.

But I have nearly done with my recollections.

CHAPTER IV.-PERSONS AND THINGS.

HAVE any of my readers spent a night in the Stranorlar inn? If they have, they must have been struck with the tidiness and comfort of the place. At the time I speak of, it was kept by a fine hearty old man, who loved his glass, his pipe, and his friend. He was a good specimen of the class of landlords who flourished in our fathers' days: always jolly and obliging, and particular above all things of the liquors he vended. He was nearly unrivalled in brewing whiskey punch, and taught me something of the art, but he was not quite so accomplished as some others of my masters. He was no mean hand, however, and I respect his memory. Poor -; he is now dead and gone. Father Time was too many for him, and he laid down his hoary head in a peaceful grave, by the side of many a relative who stumbled and fell in the long race before him. Peace to thy memory, old friend!

The sheets, always well aired, were of "fine linen, white as snow," and lavendar sprigs under the pillows sweetly scented the bedrooms. It was a perfect treat to spend a night in one of the small bed-rooms, so fresh and sweet-smelling, after an hour or two of agreeable converse with the host and his friends in the little parlour. And then the house-maid. I was younger in 1852 than I am now, and I may be pardoned if a feeling of softness steals over one at the recollection of the rosy cheeks, pouting lips, white teeth, and plump form of the house-maid Betty. Unromantic name, Betty; but there were a dozen romances looped up in the knots of pink ribbons in her neat house cap, and any number of chapters of incidents for the reading in the twinkle of her bright hazel eyes. Betty was a modest girl-a rustic Irish beauty. I wonder what became of her. She'll be faded now, however, and I have no doubt would be a very unromantic sort of female to look at. It is a pity that pretty women ever grow old, for "a thing of beauty is a joy for ever," but a faded beauty is quite the reverse.

Let us step into that little parlour and gather round the blazing peat fire, with mine host in the corner, facing a local celebrity, whose songs were familiar to the loyal men of the district, and who carried under an odd exterior a heart of sterling honesty and kindness, and a fund of humour and anecdote, which made him a welcome guest wherever he went. Mullan sat next mine host, and my lot was cast beside our loyal and poetic companion. Everything was warm and cozy, and the steam from the aromatic water which clarified the whiskey, filled the apartment with a grateful fragrance. Mine host was unusually entertaining; Mullan did his best to please; and as the night advanced the divine afflatus inspired the muse, and the impromptu character of the melodies gave point and pungency to the hobbling rhythm. The laugh and joke and song passed round. At length it was past the hour for our bard to start upon his homeward journey, a cool ride of ten miles being before him.

Lantern in hand we accompanied him to the stables; the steed stood ready saddled, quiet and self-composed, as if conscious of a general permission to walk, or stand, or sleep if it pleased, so long as it did not throw its rider. There seemed to be a tacit understanding between the

horse and its master, and it was well it was so, for the bard, although a
great poet, was a very bad rider. Grasping the hand of each of us in
turn, he essayed to mount. Vain effort. To climb into the saddle was
impossible.
The ostler gave
"a leg;" but in vain. The beast was
perversely tall, and though the poetic mind might vault lightly upon the
back of the flying Pegasus, the poetic body was too heavy to back the
demure cob, which took the labouring efforts as a matter of course
and a thing to which it had become accustomed.

The attempt was about to be given up in despair, when a bright thought struck the sleepy ostler. Although the poet could not bestride his horse, he might just be able to walk up a set of steps, and topple into the saddle as he would on his bed. Once in the stirrups, the horse would do the rest. The steps were fetched, and placed against the horse's side; the bard ascended, and in time got settled in the saddle; the steps were removed, and with the "good night" of the rider the beast switched its tail, and walked leisurely out of the yard taking the road to Strabane. A fair ride to you, old man and poet. If thy songs were written in defiance of the rules of prosody, there was a simplicity and vigour in them that more than compensated for the want of artistic arrangement. Thine were rugged rhymes, not flowing numbers; but thy fame will out-live in the memory of thy readers the name of many an elegant versifier and aspirant after fame.

CHAPTER V.-MINE HOST'S STORY.

HAVING seen our friend well off, we returned from the chilly night air to the little parlour, which was temptingly cozy. None of us felt fatigue, and again the punch bowl went round; the fire was replenished, and Mullan volunteered to tell a story.

"Let it be a true one, Mullan," said mine host, " for your stories are generally pure inventions."

"I admit I have a fertile imagination at times; and then I like to take a wrinkle out of the English. Eh, Terry; gullible people your tourist countrymen ?"

He smiled at me, and our host enjoyed the hit at the English, for the story of the eagle had been told early in the evening, and the poet had plucked a feather from the eagle's wing to write an impromptu.

I waived the point, and said I would be delighted to hear the story; and my friend, not wishing to push an unpleasant subject further, complied.

"If there is any pleasure in life in which my fellow-countrymen take a greater delight than another," said Mullan, "it is in the manufacture of the commodity called whiskey."

"Barring," said mine host sententiously, holding up his fresh brewed bumper, and looking admiringly at it between him and the light; "barring drinking it, Mullan, my boy. Here's to you ;" and he swallowed part of its contents. "My brew never addles the brain, you see, and there's pleasure in the drinking."

"Well," replied Mullan, "you had best tell a story. Terry had pricked up his ears to listen to me, but as you dispute my premiss you may indulge in descriptive yourself."

"I'm not much of a story-teller," quoth the other; "but I am open to dispute the point betwixt distilling and drinking whiskey. I say an Irishman, next to the pleasure of drinking potheen, loves to manufacture it. If you grant that, proceed. If you don't we'll argue it, or leave it to the stranger.

"I declare I'm not a competent judge," said I, "but I should say that our host is in the right."

The host nodded approvingly.

"There," said Mullan, "I knew what it would come to with you. You take to the national beverage as if you were to the manor born.' But I don't assent, and the landlord must tell a story."

"If you insist on that," said the ruby old gentleman, straightening down his waistcoat; "if you insist on that, I move that the sitting be adjourned till to-morrow."

I rose to go. "Before you go," said he, "I want to tell you a joke that happened the other day hereabouts, nearly as good in its way as that about the eagle; and by the same token it happened with an Irish gentleman, who should have known better."

I resumed my seat, and mine host continued, taking breath for an occasional whiff of his pipe.

"Times have been bad enough here lately, and the poor people about have each had permission to graze one of their cows free, on a part of the land about the castle, near the bridge. The steward is a kindly man, and sometimes they stole a march on him, and kept two cows instead of one on the grass. In spite of repeated warnings, Paddy Kelly kept up the joke, off and on, till Parliament was over, and Sir and his lady,

The most of

and the big people from London, came over to the Castle. the people needed no warning to keep off their cows then; but Paddy was too greedy to take warning. His two cows went out as usual; and he was herding the best to get a soft pick on a little island in the Finn close by the demesne, the day after his honor returned, when who should come round but Sir and the steward.

"What is this man's cow doing there?' was the first word Sir -spoke.

"I have told him not to tresspass on it, sir, and he will persist in doing it; but as he's a very poor man I did not like to be harsh.'

"Quite right, Nickle; quite right. My man, did I not give you all leave to graze one cow each in my own fields, and you are not content with that but come and break down fences and spoil the place? What's your name?'

"Paddy Kelly, please your honor.'

"Well, Paddy Kelly, and what have you got to say for yourself?' "Please your honor I'm a very poor man, and times are hard sure enough. I have only the one cow, poor thing, and she's a weakly

beast.'

"What's the matter with the cow! She looks fat enough.'

"Aye, your honor, and so she does, beholding to the soft pick she gets at the roots of the trees; but if I did'nt watch her myself and keep her from the other beasts, she'd never get a pick at all.'