send the man before the civil magistrate for trial, and in order to bind the witnesses over to appear, notice was given to the magistrate of the bazaar. No doubt could now any longer exist as to the real state of the transaction. The regiment to which the naek belonged had received orders to leave the station, the man had found that he had involved himself in an engagement which, if he fulfilled, he would have been hampered with a great expense in the journey which was before them. The dependent condition of the girl showed him that he had nothing to expect from her friends to assist him under the circumstances in which they stood. The pressing urgency of the case probably made her unfortunately seek from this fiend in human shape for some specific answer immediately as to his intentions previous to the departure of his regiment. The secluded situation made him suppose that there was no chance of her cries being heard, and his cruel disposition made him a stranger to compassion. But still it was almost too horrible to believe.

I have set down verbatim the facts which I was myself, several years ago, actually cognisant of. Such scenes, whatever may be the current of circumstances which pass over one in transitory life's pilgrimage, are so striking, so appalling, so fraught with horror, that it is impossible not to retain them in vivid force in one's memory. The tales one reads, the stories one hears, are more or less impressive in proportion to the language in which they are brought before our minds, or the mode in which they are recited; but the living picture, the mute pathos of the reality of woe, the unerring evidence of one's senses, bear a recollection which it is impossible to obliterate.

The hardened wretch, when, after his trial before the magistrate he was found, on circumstantial evidence, guilty of the murder, and condemned to death, did not evince any remorse, and no confession of any kind was heard from him previous to his being executed. When the case came to be tried before a magistrate, he told me that he relied principally on the circumstantial evidence. This I was not surprised to hear, for certainly nothing could have been more unsatisfactory than the evidence which was given us by the parties which we examined in this case. The men of the Moslem creed are sworn always on the Koran, which book is placed in their hand by a Moolvie, and they are adjured to speak the truth on the strength of their belief in one God. But with the women this is not considered the proper mode of swearing them. The most binding oath with a Mussulman woman is to make her place her hands on the head of her child and swear by it. This form they will probably hold a superstitious reverence for, and indeed, here as elsewhere, the love for their offspring is the strongest hold which attaches itself to the affections of women. With such feelings and sentiments totally uninstructed, it is mournful to reflect that so many millions are subjugated to the iron rule of masters whose minds are totally estranged from every feeling of sympathy, and devoid of every quality which elevates human nature. Even the man of common philanthropy might deplore the circumstances of the condition of these women, as yet unblest with the least amelioration, from the fact of their land having become colonised by Christians; but how much more must the Christian, in his aspirations for the spread of the glorious Gospel, devoutly hope for the time when the knowledge of a true God and the love of a blessed Saviour, may diffuse their humanising influence in that benighted country.

A NIGHT ON KNOCKMELEDOWN MOUNTAIN.

ONE day, towards the middle of August, 1863, a solitary pedestrian was proceeding from Lismore to Clogheen, so celebrated in song as the meeting place of Sergeant Snapp and Paddy Carey. These towns mark the boundaries of the counties Waterford and Tipperary, and are divided from each other by Knockmeledown, the loftiest of the chain of mountains that separates these counties. Persons passing from one town to the other generally avail themselves of the road which crosses the mountain, as it saves time, and is of a more picturesque character. It was this road the pedestrian had taken, and was following its sloping course upwards, a stout walking-stick assisting his steps. In his dress and appearance there was nothing particular to attract attention, for, like most persons out for a walking excursion, he wore a shooting-coat and a Jerry hat. Having walked half way up the mountain, he arrived at the monastery of Mount Melleray, and as he stopped to admire the architectural beauty of this building, as well as its neatly laid out grounds, he reflected how well chosen was the monks' abode for inspiring a true devotional spirit.

Farther up on the mountain he paused from time to time to gaze with delight on the beauties of the surrounding landscape. In the valley beneath was Lismore, seemingly no larger than a bed of flowers in a parterre. Though the town is built on an elevation of ninety-three feet above the level of the river, the streets seemed undefinable, the houses huddled together. The steep embankment rises at a little distance to a rugged and precipitous cliff, upon which stands the castle, its bold, angular outlines half in shade and half illumined by the slanting rays of the afternoon sun. Beneath, the deep and surgy Blackwater flowed by castle and town in its rapid course towards the sea. In the distance were the well-defined outlines of the rock and the Cathedral of Cashel, and far away in the opposite direction could be discerned the ocean and the bays of Youghal and Dungarvan. Having sufficiently admired this truly panoramic scene, the pedestrian resumed his journey upwards. He now left the road which winds round the right shoulder of Knockmeledown, and in order to cross the summit he ascended amid the dapple grey stone and purple heath with which the southern side of the mountain is covered.

The day was near spent, and a sudden change in the weather was perceptible. Clouds of a lurid hue, which brightened into a deep orange as they extended towards the west, overcast the sky. The atmosphere, though at so great an elevation, became oppressive, and a thunder-storm seemed imminent. To escape from so exposed and perilous a position as the bare mountain-top, the pedestrian quickened his pace and crossed the summit, passing not unnoticed a small cairn, which there marks the last resting-place of an eccentric person, who was buried in this elevated spot in compliance with his dying request. Heavy drops of rain began to fall, and thunder already resounded round him; but, though caught in the storm, he knew that shelter was at hand.

At a short distance from the summit, and under a rocky projection on

the side which faces the county Tipperary, stood a cabin, wildly situated, but sheltered on every side except the north. It had remained unshaken by the fierce blasts of several winters. Often did the tired sportsman rest himself and his dogs beneath its humble roof: never was the weary wayfarer sent away unrefreshed from its door. No sooner was friend or stranger seen advancing along the "bit of a boreen" that led to the cabin, than he was cordially welcomed by the owner, Mickey Ryan, or, if he was not at home, by his wife, Judy, who was generally accompanied by several little mountaineers hanging on by her petticoat, whilst she seemed never without another in her arms, that chirruped its welcome as you approached. No sooner had the stranger entered the cabin than every little comfort it afforded was placed at his disposal. Did he come in drenched with rain, as it not unfrequently happened, the addition of a few sods and some twigs made the fire burn more briskly, and his clothes were quickly dried, while he was being refreshed with fried rashers and eggs, some griddle bread, and a little potheen punch. How the potheen found its way up Knockmeledown was a question which Mickey Ryan would rather not be asked, and which he invariably declined to answer. But down in Clogheen it was mysteriously hinted that Mickey was a "cute" boy, and "undherstud distillin'." Be that as it may, however, the "dew" was always plentiful enough to refresh liberally any one who sought the hospitality of his humble home.

It was to this cabin that the pedestrian whom we have followed in his ascent of Knockmeledown, hastened for shelter. The rain had made the mountain-side slippery, still he walked rapidly along, as he was not unfamiliar with the ground. He turned in the direction of the boreen, and in a few minutes was partaking of Mickey Ryan's hospitality.

The fire was immediately replenished. The guest's wet garments were being dried, whilst he sat with one of Judy's petticoats round his shoulders, and a cupful of hot punch before him. A few peals of thunder were heard reverberating round the mountain, the rain fell in torrents, and penetrated here and there through the thatched roof of the cabin ́; but Ryan and his guest sat before the fire, and smoked and drank regardless of the weather without.

The host was tall and raw-boned, with gaunt visage, prominent cheekbones, ferret eyes, and freckled face. A patch of ground on the mountain-side yielded him potatoes enough for the subsistence of himself and his family. He kept a pig, of course, and treated it with the respect which the Irish peasant usually shows to this animal by lodging it in the best apartment, and supporting its claim to this distinction by telling you "it's the gintleman that pays the rint." Besides, he had some friends and many well-wishers down in the town of Clogheen, from whom he occasionally got employment at digging or mowing, according to the season, or as a labouring hand at some building work.

But when the times were bad, he passed readily from these employments to another, in which he had not yet been disturbed by the vigilance of the exciseman. In short, Mickey Ryan gained his living chiefly by making and selling whisky without being duly licensed. Like many others as humble circumstanced as himself, he found illicit distillation too profitable to be deterred by its risks. There is also, it appears, for many

persons, an unspeakable pleasure in the hazardous nature of the occupation.

But the phase of character in which we have now to consider him is that of an entertaining host, beguiling the hours with his scraps of stories and superstitious beliefs. When having his pipe and his glass a complete change came over him. Then his features grew radiant with good humour, his ferret eyes dropped their cunning leer for a look of confidence and communicativeness, and an unceasing flow of legendary and superstitious lore issued from his lips. With such a companion, the pedestrian found the night to pass over very pleasantly. Much of what he said on that night has passed from our memory, but what is still remembered will lose, we fear, in attractiveness by having the plain language of narrative occasionally substituted for his pointed and racy descriptions.

He dwelt with pride on many of the customs of the ancient Irish. He showed how impotent had been priest and crosier to efface from the mind of an imaginative people the poetic beliefs which a Pagan creed had taught. The sanctity of some places, the divinity of some substances, were articles in the creed of the Irish peasant as ineradicable in the nineteenth century as they may have been when the city whose lofty towers are supposed to gleam in the waters of Lough Neagh was still fitted for human habitation. The heathen rites which propitiated the divinity of a sacred well were altered to Christian devotional exercises; the wells were blessed and called holy, and became, on certain days, the resort of fanatics and pious pilgrims. He pointed out how the lingering relics of the worship of Baal were discernible in the custom of lighting bonfires on May-day; and in the mystic character of the dance performed round them by the peasantry; how young men purified themselves for the marriage state by jumping backwards and forwards over these fires, which on that day blazed in every town and village; how those who intended to travel followed the example of those who intended to marry, in order to make their journey lucky. As the night waned, and the fires burned down, the cattle were brought out and driven over the embers, after which it was supposed they could not be attacked by distemper nor affected by witchcraft. Then pieces of the wood still alight were snatched up by the dispersing crowd, each individual believing that his prosperity for that year depended on his bringing his brand home unextinguished. But Mickey having refilled his pipe and his cup, may now be left to speak a little for himself.

"Shure," said he, "no one iver heerd of the likes of the ould scholard that lived all alone below in the bit of a house by the river near the breedge. Sorra one he iver let near him but an ould crone that wint in iv a mornin', you see, to tidy up the place. Well, they say he was a mighty knowledgeable man intirely. When he was on fur it, the sorra a cloud he'd let pass by but he'd take the thundher out iv it, an' put it in a bottle an' cork it up, jist as asy as you'd hook a trout in the sthrame below, an' put it in your basket. An' whin he felt himself goin', he sent fur some iv the people hard by, an' got thim to promise to bury him up here you know the spot where the heap of stones is. The ould chap's name was Eeles, you see, an' me father knew some ould people that had givin the coffin a lift, an' they but gossoons at the time. Shure, they

tould him the people came from all parts to the berrin, an' follied the corpse to the top of the mountain, the strongest ov 'im givin' a shoulder now an' agin; an' fagged enough they were afore they'd got the coffin up to the grave. I dar say the ould gintleman wanted to be as near to heaven as he could, havin' his doubts that he'd iver get so far in the usual coorse.

"But I haven't tould you all yit, an' whin I do, you'll say, I'm thinkin', that berrin's run in the blood like wooden-legs.

"Ould Eeles had a brother almost as ould an' as knowledgeable as himself. Well, he'd no sooner settled himself in the ould house, an' got hould iv the money an' the combustibles for drawin' down the thundher, thin he cocks his toes one mornin' too, lavin' all behind him wid dyin' ordhers for his berrin to be on the top iv the mountain forninst us. Ay, in throth, there they lie; an' whin the thundher rowls overhead, an' the lightnin' flashes about the mountain-top, the boys think thim that's above have a hand in it, an' say that the ould gintlemin are at their thricks agin."

The host, having imparted this piece of local information, took a few whiffs from his pipe, and finished his cup of potheen; then, with the spirit of a giant refreshed, he resumed his discourse.

He spoke of a melancholy period in the history of the country when the cholera first visited it, and the people were panic-stricken. Their minds reverted to the ancient belief in the efficacy of fire to avert disease, and they invoked the aid of that element to arrest the ravages of the fearful epidemic. But they were far from thinking that this invocation was evidence that the belief in the divinity of fire still lingered amidst them. By some special organisation, or contrivance, stations were marked out, at which men swift of foot were placed, with specific instructions. These were to take the lighted torch from the bearer, who had run in breathless and exhausted, and emulate him in his zeal and speed to arrive at the next station, where he in turn was relieved by a fresh man, and so on, till the circuit of the island had been accomplished. Thus, in one night, a fiery cordon was drawn round Ireland.

In continuation, he spoke about witches, and the spells they cast upon people and their possessions; and he maintained that a horse-shoe, nailed to the door-post of the dairy, was a potent talisman against witchcraft. He had himself once joined in a singular and exciting chase-it was that of a witch, who, in the form of a hare, was caught milking a cow in the open field: "It was Paddy Phelan's cow, too; poor paddheen was melancholic by rason iv the cow runnin' dhry, an' he was intindin' to put a soogawn on her, whin, as luck would have it, he met meself an' a couple of other gossoons wid a bit of a gun betune us, whin lo an' behold ye! we saw Miss Pussy at work, savin' paddheen the trouble of gettin' his cow milked. Thin the boy wid the gun ups an' fires, an' hit Miss Pussy in the croobeen, an' didn't she squeal an' run as if a whole pack of hounds was in purshuit, wid the blud drippin from her all the time. Thin sich a chase as we had! We were in full cry afther her till she came to the cabin of an ould crone that the neighboors had all along suspected of dalins wid a certain 'gintleman' below, thin, all of a suddent, the hare jumped in at the open windy, an' you may be shure our feet wint like a clapper whin the birds are casting longing eyes at the corn, an' the