horse from the thrush or some kindred ailment. Sometimes a hair-pin, left by some trustful woman, tells of her cure from headache. Strings of blue and white glass beads are always to be seen on or about the ledge, and bits of rag, commonly red, are fastened to the surrounding stones. Each piece of rag has been torn from the garment of some pilgrim, and denotes that some benefit, bodily or spiritual, has been derived from a visit to the well.

Such are the saint's relics in the Holy Glen, and they are devoutly cherished by the faithful peasantry. But the most significant fact is this, that Columba actually was there for some time before he withdrew to Iona. The true antiquary, who is interested in the haunts of holy men, can reverently trace the footsteps of one of the purest and most earnest of Irish saints. He can meditate upon the same savage scene as met the eyes of the tenderhearted penitent of more than thirteen hundred years ago. In fancy's vivid picture-book he can see the devout hermit. walking sadly to the brow of Glen Head to watch the rage of wind and water. He can imagine him wrestling with the demons, who played their pranks amid the lonely mountains; and he can recall the memory of that heroic missionary, who did so much for the well-being of his country so long ago. Should he be more than commonly fortunate, he can still witness the half-barbaric ceremonies of a Patron, and view with astonished eyes the rigorous rites of the simple faith of the peasantry of Ireland. But should such a sight meet his gaze, he can hardly fail to fancy himself carried back to the Middle Ages; and he will be filled with a half-sympathetic, half-restive mind, when he thinks that such things can be so near home at this end of the nineteenth century.

There are many more legends of County Donegal;

but the foregoing will suffice to illustrate the beliefs and superstitions which still linger in the remoter parts of Ireland. The effect of the evil eye upon human beings and cattle, the prejudice against a black cat, the dances of the fairy-bands, the boats out at sea filled with the spirits of the dead, and a hundred other superstitions feed the fancy and scare the soul of many a simple countryman, and of many a large-eyed, tender woman. But the wayfarer will like them none the less for their credulous faith, and the genuine kindness of the peasantry of Erin will appeal to his heart, while the sublime solemnity of the scenery will strike his soul with awe. Be the chance visitor as rationalistic as Professor Huxley, he will not wonder that these lonely glens and desolate islands are the last home of bygone beliefs and timeworn superstitions. But whatever he may think of their credulity, he cannot choose but admire the kindliness of the Donegal peasantry, the poetic and occasionally humorous character of their folk-lore, the savage majesty of the barren mountains, the desolate islands, the lonely valleys, and the deep-blue boisterous ocean.

W ELL that title describes part of it only. The hunt really stated at No. 6 platform, Victoria Station, Manchester, and the quarry had twenty-four hours' start. My first piece of good luck as a huntsman happened there, for I met at the booking office a certain member of the Clan Gordon, who knew well the happy hunting grounds for which I was bound, and knew better still the ways and wiles of the special Fox I was pursuing.

Moreover, he was going part of the way himself, and so, chortling in my joy," I went along with him on the road to the meet," which was some two hundred and fifty miles distant. The Gordon was at his best, and I and some half-dozen others who shared the railway carriage compartment with him were astonished at finding ourselves at Fleetwood, so delightful was his talk.

The great steamer with the ducal name might have been a pleasure yacht of the clan I have named, to judge from the anxiety shown by the stewards in anticipating my companion's wants, and thanks to this I had a rare good time in crossing the Irish Sea.

And next morning, after a good send-off at Belfast, where again my companion seemed to have plenary powers of securing attention on all hands, I found myself proceeding on my further way to Donegal regretfully alone.

The railway ride, however, was a most interesting one, as the names of some of the stations will testify: Antrim of the Round Tower, Ballymena of the Fairs, Coleraine of the salmons and the mountain dew (not to speak of sweet Kitty of that ilk), Limavaddy, whose charming Peggy has been immortalised by Thackeray; and Derry, the Maiden City, with its historic walls and its picturesque waterfront.

At the last-named place I left the train and took ferry over the harbour. In answer to my enquiry, the ferryman told me that the laygal" fare was a penny, and I injudiciously remarked that it was "cheap enough."

Well, well! call it tuppence, then," said Charon. "I'm as much ashamed of it as ye are yerself."

On reaching the shed-they call it the station—of the Lough Swilly Railway Company, finding I had a few minutes to wait, I, as usual on such occasions, interviewed the Royal Irishman on duty.

One or more of this corps d'elite" meets all trains, and so with the object, or rather with the "objects," of my chase in mind, I asked him if he had seen any suspicious persons about lately, giving him, what I am sure you would think, if I repeated it to you, a flattering description of the trio.

Ay, ay, three o' thim, quare lukin', so they wor. Augh! I tuk notis o' thim, how could I help? They wor here, yesterday, goin' on to Buncrana by this thrain."

"Well," said I, "I hear that Field Marshal Roberts is up that way, inspecting the fortifications on Lough Swilly, and I shouldn't like him to come to any harm."

The large smile of that Royal Irishman might have been seen from the back as he went on to say:

Augh! the same parties, I'll go bail. An artis'-lookin' gintleman wit' a full beard an' hair, an' a big plaid shawl round him, an' a studdy well set wan wit' a camera, an' a yung fella wit' a big laugh on him, that tuk the stashin to himself."

"There's no doubt about 'em. That's the lot," said I.

Augh! well, I sould thim three o' these tickets for our Gala next week, an' they tould me I was to sell you some whin I seen you." Tableau! I looked gravely at him as he sorted his pack of white, green, and orange tickets, but I was unable to detect any sign of amusement on his face.

"Oh, shade of Ananias!" said I, at last, "give me a shilling one, an' let me get out o' this."

Arrived at Letterkenny, after a very pleasant run, I engaged a car to take me on to Rosapenna, which was the place of "the meet." My driver was a young fellow as stolid looking as an English groom, and his tall hat and frock coat gave quite a respectable though unfitting air to the jaunty vehicle he drove.

Rosapenna was eighteen Irish miles distant, and I started on the long drive with mingled feelings of pride in the turn-out and sorrow over certain lost illusions anent the picturesqueness of Irish car drivers. The curt though civil replies with which my attempts at drawing him out were met by my driver piqued me into silence for some half-hour, during which we had been climbing into a frightfully desolate region, and I had closed my eyes for a moment, when a sudden swerve of the car roused me. We were passing through a savage-looking defile, and the horse had shied at sight of an Irish lady of ample proportions, who was pulling on one of a pair of "martyeens