terposition of mortal arm, with a loud shriek, the whole pageant faded, and on the middle finger of his hand which had saved his countrymen from destruction, Shane found a ring, on which was engraved an Irish word, of which the English is, wish twice. His first wish was a very natural one ; he wished himself in a place of safety, and in an instant he was whirled through the air as fleetly as Alarus, the Scythian, was on the arrow given him by Apollo, and seated on a high cliff on the top of the mountain. He was in safety here, for nobody would venture to follow him. His next wish, therefore, was for plenty of whiskey to make himself comfortable. He got drunk, tumbled down, and was killed.

It is astonishing how little novelty there is even in fiction itself. The tale of one country and generation, disfigured and altered, becomes the story of another. I instantly traced the above one, to a fairy tale I have read in my younger days, called, if I am correct in my recollection, Perfect Love; or, the Loves of Prince Percinus and the Princess Irolita. How much Irish tradition disfigures it, may be seen by referring to the original. Shane, it is true, is a bad name to found a romance on, and a robber's adventures could never be made as interesting as the sorrows of a princess.

I returned my host thanks for his long story, and offered him payment for my dinner. which by this time I had finished. but he would accept of nothing for it. "Na, na, surr,” said he," I wunna drink a man's whiskey, and take mammon for a drap out o' the crock—that wou'd na be decent."

About two miles from his house, I came to a place where two roads meet. I sat down until some person should come up who could inform me which of them I was to take. Though seated on the ground, I had an extensive prospect; not very fruitful in any part, and as barren as ever Churchill found Scotland in many places. It consisted of reclaimed and irreclaimable land-of scanty grass and barren heath-but not therefore useless-for while sheep grazed on the one, there was plenty of turf on the other. I continued sitting nearly an hour, without hearing a single footstep. I hardly recollect any

thing more still; the silence was even oppressive. I gradually fell into a kind of reverie. "Utrum horum," I heard from a voice behind me; I looked round, and saw a little man in black, mounted on a horse no larger than a mule. He wore a large grizzled wig and cocked hat. They formed a ludicrous contrast to his jolly face, and swollen cheeks, puffed by good cheer, like a trumpeters, or Eolus when he gave the winds

vent.

"Am'nt I right," said he, clapping me familiarly on the back, "hav'nt you missed your way?"

"No," I said, "it was to avoid missing it, I remained here."

"And well you did," said he, "for I can inform you,come along," taking hold of my coat, "this is the way."

"It may be your way," I replied, "but you will better know mine when I tell you where I am going."

“I can tell you," replied he; "you are going along with me to a neighbour's house, where you'll get a good dinner and plenty of whiskey into the bargain."

He then informed me he was a priest of the parish, and was going to a parishioner's, to marry his daughter to a neighbouring young man. He civilly pressed me to accompany him, apologizing for the freedom with which he had accosted me. I declined the offer; but as our road happened to be for a part of the way, the same, we travelled on together. His conversation was as grotesque, as his appearance, and was interlarded with scraps of Latin, delivered in a nasal tone, like a Frenchman. He had been educated in France, and had resided there several years.

I asked how he liked it?

"C'est un pays de dieu," he replied.

"And Ireland," said I, "did it appear strange to you, after quitting this Paradise,"

"Ireland is a Paradise," said he; "I mean will be, when the bugs have left it."

We parted at a narrow lane which led down to the house where he was going. I walked slowly forward. Had I sus

pected what was to follow, I should have gone quicker. I had scarcely got a quarter of a mile, when a man on horseback overtook me. He took off his hat, and hoped I would condescend to eat a mouthful with him. I told him it was impossible, that the evening was advancing, and I should be very late in getting to Ballymena.

"I can get you a bed in a neighbour's house," said he. "I am sorry I cannot offer you one in my own-it will be so crowded-but if you will demean yourself so far as to make one of us, it will be a great compliment to my daughter and the bridegroom-you travelled better than a mile with the priest and it would'nt be reckoned lucky to pass by, without taking a drap to their healths."

I turned round, and accompanied him back to his house. The lane which led down to it was rocky and uneven—a small low brook ran along the centre-my companion made me mount his horse, lest my feet should get wet. The house was mean-looking enough, but it was cheerly illuminated by the setting sun, impatient, as a poet would say, had it been the wedding of a princess, to hide himself behind the lofty mountain beyond it. No bad emblem, it may be permitted a sober prose writer to remark, of the fugitive sunshine of a married life. I dismounted from my steed with almost as much state as a Pope (I cannot immediately recollect his name) did between two great Kings, for the bridegroom held the stirrup, and the priest the bridle, The latter welcomed me with the cordiality of an old acquaintance. "Salvo multum exoptate," said he, shaking me heartily by the hand. We then proceeded to the room where the company were assembled. The floor was earthen, but clean. A table was decently laid out for dinner. I was introduced to the bride. She was a modest-looking girl about seventeen. She was dressed in a white calico gown and ribands, and had a fan in her hand. The Priest now began the ceremony. The evening was close and the room crowded. He soon got into a violent heat, and to cool himself, took his wig off several times, wiped his head, 3 A

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and replaced it. But whatever there might be uncouth in his manner, there was nothing ludicrous, either in that of the bride or her parents. The voice of nature will always find its way to the heart, and the tears which streamed down their cheeks bespoke the affection they bore each other. After the deremony was over, the whiskey went round, and we then sat down to dinner. It was a very abundant one, not ill dressednor, considering the condition of the people, ill served. The priest was grand carver, grand talker too, and grand laugher. I was seated at his right hand, and if I were not comfortable it was not his fault, for no person could be more attentive. The moment dinner was over, the table was removed, and the company began dancing. The music was a fiddle and dulcimer. The dances were reels of three and of four-when one person got tired, another instantly started up in his or her place, and the best dancer was he or she who held out the longest. A singular kind of pas seul was performed by a crack dancer. A door was taken off the hinges, and laid on the floor, on which he danced in his stocking-soles. He displayed considerable activity, but there was an almost total want of grace. His principal movement consisted in rapidly and alternately raising his feet as high as his waistcoat, and when he succeeded in getting his toes a little way into the pocket, there was a universal burst of applause.

Every nation has a dance, as well as a song, peculiar to itself. Yet of the ancient Irish dance, no mention is made by any historian. Tradition, indeed, gives us a description of the Rinceadh' Fada which, it affirms, was the dance of the ancient Irish. If it were, I regret that the use of it has passed away, as it appears to have been a very elegant one. When that unfortunate monarch, James II., landed at Kinsale, his friends, who waited his arrival on the sea shore, welcomed him with the Rinceadh' Fada, the figure and execution of which delighted him exceedingly. Three persons abreast, each holding the ends of a white handkerchief, first moved forward a few paces to slow music, the rest of the dancers following, two

and two, a white handkerchief between each. Then the dance began. The music suddenly changing to brisk time, the dancers passed with a quick step under the handkerchiefs of the three in front, wheeled round in semicircles, formed a variety of pleasing and animating evolutions, interspersed at intervals with entre chants or cuts, united, and fell again into their original places behind, and paused. This it is conjectured was the dance of the Pagan Irish, during their festivals on the 1st of May and the 1st of August, when fires were lighted, and sacrifices offered on the most lofty mountains in every part of the kingdom, to Bael, or the Sun. It is likewise conjectured, that the dancers were a kind of chorus, who sung as they danced, a hymn in praise of the Deity whom they were honouring.

But to return to the scene of which I was so unexpectedly a spectator. The whiskey was handed frequently about, a few took it mixed with water, but the generality drank it plain. The women scarcely tasted it, nor did the Priest. His spirits indeed, seemed of themselves sufficiently buoyant-he drank plentifully of tea, however in which I was happy to join him. The company at length got noisy and intoxicated, and I began to find my situation unpleasant-not that I was apprehensive of the slightest danger; but coarseness is oppressive whenever it becomes familiar-vulgarity may be endured when it is modest, which drunkenness seldom is. I was, therefore, agreeably surprised, when the man of the house came and told me a gentleman wanted to speak to me at the door. It was his landlord. The poor man had run up to his house to inform him of me, and to request him to offer me a bed. The gentleman, with great civility, had come down himself, and I gladly consented to accompany him back, to the great annoyance of my friend, the Priest, who said, he should now have nobody fit to talk to. I left him singing a French song, which, in the company he was in, could not be very edifying. He had sung one or two in the course of the evening.